


Cherry Kirsch

by Watergirl1968



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Assault, Bullying, Car Accident, Crimes & Criminals, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Genderfluid Armin, Jearmin - Freeform, Jearmin Week, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Self-Harm, Spanking, Strangulation, Violence, jeanxarmin - Freeform, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 113,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1959459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl1968/pseuds/Watergirl1968
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern!AU which features Jean Kirschstein as a downtown cabbie who moonlights as a jazz musician and Armin Arlert as an enigmatic young paramedic who turns up in his cab one morning. </p><p>Jean is instantly attracted to Armin, a person whom he finds in turns quirky, goofy, gorgeous and intriguing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 850 Sina Court

**Author's Note:**

> A modern!AU, in which Armin is a bi-gendered character.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

 

Shift change at the hospital. Jean always swung by to scoop up someone coming off night shift.

Yesterday, it had been Greta and Josie, two filipino nurses that called him _manong_  and always asked him, _Jon-Jon still single?_

He would shrug at the two older ladies. "Nobody as beautiful as you out there, what can I say?" and they would giggle.

"You find a nice girl, you'll see." Josie had patted his shoulder. She pronounced the 'f' with a 'p'-sound.

He pulled into the taxi stand at the hospital. Four cabs ahead of him. Jean stretched his legs and slurped at his coffee. Humming, he pulled out his phone and logged onto his chess gaming website. He viewed a game he had in progress with an online opponent. He grinned. His opponent had taken the bait.

Brakelights glowed red as the cab in front of his pulled ahead one spot. Jean eased forward as well.

He looked at the iphone screen. His move. He advanced his bishop and hit 'enter'.

A few moments later, he was top cab.

His opponent took his bishop with a pawn, exposing his queen. Sweet.

The cab door opened with a whoosh, and a young blond bounced into the back seat.

"Morning!" said a soft, bright voice.

Jean looked up, pocketing his phone.

"Good morning yourself," he smiled, pulling away from the curb. "Where you headed?"

"To bed, please."

"Huh?" Jean chuckled good-naturedly. He looked in his rear-view mirror.

Enormous blue eyes. Quirky, mischievous face. Pale hair in a dishevelled ponytail. Blue uniform shirt.

"Shift change," a bright, shy smile. "850 Sina Court, please."

"Sure thing," Jean switched on the meter. "Any preference which route?"

"Nah, I'm not bothered, you pick."

"You work at Mount Sinai?"

"In and out. I'm an EMT. I drive an ambo. Nice having someone else drive for a change."

Jean was surprised. The boy didn't look old enough to have his driver's licence, much less drive an ambulance.

He tapped his ipod. Jazz violin.

"Grappelli," said his passenger appreciatively, "Nice."

"You like jazz violin?"

A giggle, "By which you mean, am I old enough to like jazz violin?"

"I don't meet many Grappelli fans," Jean conceded.

"Well now you've met one. I'm Armin."

Jean reached a hand behind him. "Jean Kirschstein."

"Hmm. Jean Kirschstein." said Armin. "that sounds like a guy that designs teak furniture. You in a creative field?"

"By which you mean, why am I driving a cab?"

"Hah! Touché!" the blue-eyed EMT smiled into the rearview mirror, meeting Jean's eyes.

__________

Two days later, Jean greeted the city sunrise at a crossroads. Should he go left to Chinatown or right to Mount Sinai? He turned right. As he pulled into the taxi stand, he saw Greta and Josie waving. They got into his cab, chatting happily. Jean smiled and greeted them, feeling a slight pang of disappointment.

_Jon-Jon still single? You meet somebody nice?_

__________

It happened the following Tuesday. Cab opened, duffle bag was launched into the back seat, followed by Armin.

"Jean Kirschstein," he was greeted brightly, "design any coffee tables lately?"

Jean snickered, shaking his head. "Armin Ambulance."

"Armin Arlert."

"Armin Alert?"

"I get that alot. Armin _Arlert_."

"Where to, Armin Arlert?"

"Same as before," the large, bright eyes were playful, "to bed."

Jean picked up his radio "Eight-five-zero Sina Court," he said into it. _Copy_ , said the radio.

"Hmm, a singing hotdog," Armin was viewing the flatscreen monitor attached to the back of front passenger seat in the cab.

"La-la-la-la. Welcome to Toronto! Warm and sunny today, with the high reaching twenty-seven degrees. Don't leave your pet in a locked car…"

The screen changed, displaying a chessboard. Armin's eyes flicked up. "Hey, what's this?"

"Cool, eh?"

As Armin watched, one of the white pawns advanced two positions.

"It's your move," Jean's hazel eyes twinkled. "Go on. Just touch the screen and drag your finger. Then tap."

"How'd you do that?"

"You kidding? This cab is rigged, baby!" Jean said, a touch proudly.

Armin reached down. Jean realized he wore a pair of reading glasses around his neck, the break-apart kind that snap together in the centre. Armin put them onto the bridge of his small nose. He studied the chessboard. Jean stared into the rearview. Armin Arlert was geeky and funny and gorgeous.

Armin looked up at him gravely. "I will destroy you at chess," he said matter-of-factly.

__________

It rained on Thursday. Jean threw on some Sergio Mendes boss nova music and pulled into the taxi stand. A figure darted from the shelter of the entryway and slipped into his cab.

"Were you waiting for me?" Jean teased

"I was, as it happens," Armin sounded a little tired.

"Home?"

"Please," Armin lapsed into silence.

He gazed out of the window, his eyes misty-pale in the grey morning light. Absently, he watched the raindrops track across the windowpane.

Jean took a sip of coffee. As he was forming the thought that he shouldn't pry into a fare's business, his lips said, "Rough shift?"

Armin sighed. "Yeah...yeah it was a tough one."

And then, Armin was softly mouthing the words to the song that was playing, to himself.

Jean smiled, "Brazil 66,"

"I know," Armin said softly. "Cheesy but beautiful."

"Yeah," Jean looked back one more time before easing into traffic. "beautiful."

__________

Jean had his daughter on Fridays. Sasha had lined up all of her small rubber action figures on the rim of the bathtub as she lounged in the warm water.

"This one, Daddy, is the strongest," she said, holding up an orange cow.

"What's her name?" Jean asked. He sat on the closed toilet lid, long legs up and socked feet on the green tile wall opposite, thumbing through his phone as Sasha played.

"Her name is Sasha! Sasha Power Cow!" she informed him.

"And this one is a _broken baker,_ " That unfortunate career choice was assigned to a swordfish with wheels.

His phone pinged. It was a notification from his online chess site.

_[butterflykiss77 has made a move! It's your turn!]_

Jean bit his lip. That was Armin.

He studied the trap Armin was setting. Grinned. _I know what you're up to._

He thumbed over to the chat window. _[wot r u listening 2?]_

Pause.

_[the sound of ur tears hitting the floor as I crush u]_

_[pls don't hurt me]_ Jean tapped out, hit send and then moaned, "Eeew, _eew,_ I didn't just send that, _fuck!!"_

"Daddy!" Sasha scolded. "you owe me a dollar now. Potty mouth."

__________

"It's weird being in your cab in the early evening," Armin commented.

Jean looked in his mirror. "Yeah,"

It was 7:16 p.m. and a rare evening that neither of them was at work. Jean contemplated asking Armin to perhaps have a coffee.

What came out of his mouth was, "Shoot pool?"

Armin laughed. " _Can_ I shoot pool? I hold my own I guess. Why?"

"Wanna kill an hour? You're my last fare."

"I feel so sorry for you. You let me humiliate you at chess and now I'm going to take all your money shooting stick. So sad."

Jean grinned. "Maybe that's my game. Maybe I'm pity flirting."

Armin bit his lip delightfully. "That's your game? What, like, 'I'm just a hot saddo'?"

"Yeah."

Jean pulled his cab onto a sidestreet and parked.

"You just called me a hot saddo. _Hot._ Your word choice, not mine."

__________

Jean had taken a calculated risk. He'd brought Armin to shoot a few games at Brighton. It was an upscale bar on Church Street with a mostly gay clientele.

They walked in and the bartender raised his hand. Jean waved back.

Armin looked up at him. Jean's long, lean face held a charming, lopsided grin.

They approached the bar. There was a pint of Rickard's Red on it, waiting for Jean.

"Kirsch," the bartender nodded.

"Randy,"

Jean looked at Armin. "This is Armin," he studied the pert blond. "And he….will have…." Jean cocked his head, trying to surmise what chess-whiz ambo drivers drank, "He will have a...Strongbow?"

Randy snorted. "No way. Jameson's. Rocks."

Armin nodded. "Jameson's on the rocks."

"I never miss," Randy nodded, self-satisfied.

Jean stared at Armin blankly. "You drink nailpolish remover?"

"That's sacrilege," Armin gasped. "Besides," he pulled a slender foot out of his deck shoe, "I need my nailpolish remover."

The delicate toenails were carefully painted lavender.

__________

Armin was a tidy pool player. Jean was better. Armin's gamine face was set in concentration as he lined up a shot. One Rickard's had led to four, and Jean realized he'd have to call one of the other taxi drivers to drop them both off.

"Oh well," he sighed, feeling inordinately pleased with himself. Armin was bent over the table, trying to sink the yellow solid in the corner pocket.

_A sweet boy with a keen mind and a spectacular ass._

"Kirsch!" someone called to him. Armin snapped off his shot and stood up to be introduced to two friends of Jean's.

"Armin, meet Lesley and Chris."

"Hi," Armin stuck out his hand. The two men shook hands with Armin.

"Another public servant," Lesley observed, noting Armin's shirt.

"I am indeed. You?" Armin asked.

"Metro PD. On the job eleven years now," Lesley told him.

Armin looked at Chris. Chris was younger, sported a goatee and had a colourful Thai newsboy bag draped across his body. "I gig with Kirsch," he said.

"Sorry?"

Chris pointed to the wall behind them. The wall held a few posters, including a large one with a photo of a jazz ensemble. The photo was black & white. In clean, red typeface the poster announced: _Cherry Kirsch * Saturday, July 12th * 10 pm * Doors open at 8 pm_

"Aaaah," Armin smiled at Jean. "So, a jazz musician, eh?"

"That would be me," Jean stuffed his hands into his pockets modestly, rocking on his heels.

Armin beamed.

__________

850 Sina Court was a series of renovated loft apartments in the Distillery District.

_"3561"_

Jean ignored the dispatcher, thumbing his phone screen, playing online chess.

_"3561, Pickup"_

He sighed, "Yep, I'm here,"

_"3561, Pickup at 850 Sina Court. Over."_

"Copy."

Jean pulled away from the curb, turning off his roof light.

He pulled up in front of the lofts, half expecting to see Armin, but no, Armin would be at work on a Saturday night.

A young lady was waiting just inside the lobby doors.

Jean got out of the cab, nodding and opening the passenger door for her.

"Good evening, Miss," he greeted her.

"Hello," her voice was soft and polite.

She wore a tailored, cream-coloured skirt, a matching fitted jacket and chocolate leather pumps. Her hair, cornsilk blonde, was pulled into a loose, alluring french knot. As she gracefully stepped into the cab, Jean caught the faintest hint of scent. Vanilla. Maybe jasmine.

"Thank you," she said to him, before he closed the door.

Something fluttered inside of Jean. He leaned on the driver's door of the cab. Took a breath.

When the cab pulled away from the entrance he asked, "Where are you headed, Miss?"

"North Shore Restaurant on Yonge Street, please," she replied.

Jean turned up Jarvis Street. He adjusted the rearview to better see her.

She was a delicate beauty. Soft strands of pale hair fell around her face. Her makeup was impeccable, almost reminiscent of the Kennedy era: dark, lush eyelashes, winged eyeliner and fine brows. It was also restrained; her lips were glazed in a soft mocha tone, her pearl earrings small. She held a little chocolate clutch on her lap, which she opened, pulling out a round compact with a mother-of-pearl butterfly on it's lid. She inspected her visage, clicked the compact shut and took out a pair of cream coloured gloves.

It was all Jean could do not to be hopelessly distracted by her; her soft mannerisms, her tasteful outfit, her vintage-inspired makeup. He wanted to pay her a compliment; to say something about her sense of style.

What came out instead was, "Don't order the fish there. It's disappointingly dry."

She smiled a familiar, dimpled smile. He knew then, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

"Well then," she said softly, "What do you recommend?"

__________

Jean drove aimlessly around the north end of the city, far from his usual haunts. He parked his cab in the library parking lot and skyped with Sasha.

"My tongue is green, Daddy." the four-year-old stuck it out. "It's green from my vitamins."

"Daddy, watch this!" Sasha darted away from the computer, performing some sort of acro-dance on her bed.

Mikasa scooped her up and bent down to look at the monitor.

"Hiya, Mikki," Jean said.

"Hi yourself," his ex-girlfriend waved. "Take care out there. We'll see you Friday."

__________

Jean ate sour gummies and played chess and kicked himself for sitting in a parking lot while his evening's earnings went down the drain.

_"Pickup 2588 Yonge Street. Over"_

"G-got it!" said Jean, his mouth full of sour gummies.

__________

She exited the restaurant. She was with an older man in a grey suit. She kissed him politely, cordially, air-kisses to both cheeks before she said goodnight. Jean opened the cab door.  
  
"Well, hello again," he greeted her.

"Hi," she lowered her eyelashes demurely. Jean's body tightened.

He shut the door, walked around the cab, and nearly got hit by a cyclist.

"Watch where you're going, fuckface!" the irate biker hollered.

He got into the cab, turned on the meter and thumbed his ipod. His mouth was dry. He swallowed. He played Sarah Vaughan for her.

"Where to, please?"

_If she says 'to bed' I will fucking die, right here, right now._

"Oh, just home, please. 850 Sina Court."

Jean drove south. He cracked the windows a little, and the summer breeze stirred the tendrils of her hair. She sat, legs crossed elegantly, holding the tiny purse in her lap.

Jean flicked on the seat monitor. She glanced down at it. After a moment, the screen showed his latest chess match with Armin, halfway completed.

A long, charged moment passed.

"I believe," he said gently, "that it's your move."

Her eyes held his in the rearview mirror. She drew a sharp little breath, watching him cautiously.

Then, a small smile.

__________

  
Jean pulled up to the curb, got out, and opened the cab door. He held out his hand, which she accepted, alighting smoothly. Then slowly, deliberately, he offered her his arm.

"Please," he whispered, "allow me to walk you to the door, Miss. A lady can't be too careful at night."


	2. Ache

Armin leaned forward, stuck his arm over the seat and into the front of the cab, offering Jean a coffee.

"Oh, you didn't!" Jean beamed. "You beauty."  He accepted the paper cup, flicking open the plastic lid carefully.

"I _might_ have a cinnamon twist," Armin teased. He placed his forearm on the back of the seat, pointed chin resting on it, and looked at Jean.

"Besides," he said softly, "I think I gave you a rubbish tip last night, after you were so lovely to me."

"Yes, you did."

Blue eyes widened guilelessly. "Aw, I'm sorry. Here, pull up the game we just finished. I want to show you another defense."

Jean scrolled through his phone, found the match and clicked backwards through the moves he and Armin had made, respectively.

"Wait. Wait. Wait. _There._ Why did you rush to take my knight? See how vulnerable you left yourself? Now here is an option…" Armin chattered on. 

 Jean pulled down his sun visor, in search of a pencil. A flurry of business cards fell into his lap, bits of paper, pictures.

He picked up a photo of Sasha and Mikasa. It had been taken at the waterpark, Sasha's sopping pigtails sticking to her cheeks as she laughed delightedly. 

"Ooh," said Armin softly.

Jean picked up the picture, his features touched with incredible tenderness. "That's my little girl, Armin."

"Seriously?" Armin breathed, "Man, she's so sweet. How old is she?"

"She's four now. She starts kindergarten in the fall."

"What's her name?"

"Sasha."

"Sasha…and…." this asked carefully, "that's her mom? It must be…they look so alike…"

Jean chuckled, "Fortunately for Sashmo."

"Oh," again. Quietly. "I didn't…I mean, I…"

"We're not a couple," Jean offered, wincing immediately. "We're close friends now…I'm a - a single dad I guess."

"A single dad who dates…women?"

Jean picked up the bits of paper, stuffing them back under the visor. "Uh…well, a single dad that if he actually ever _got_ the time to go out…would date... _people_."

Paper rustled as Armin produced a cinnamon twist, stuffing it into his pretty pink mouth. "I've decided you don't get this," he teased. 

Jean's sweet, lopsided smile again. Some time later the cab pulled up to 850 Sina Court and stopped.

"What, no door service today?" Armin's blue eyes danced.

"No door service for _brats_. Out!"

__________

She called the dispatcher and ordered her cab this time. Car 3651 please. 850 Sina Court. Eight o'clock p.m.

Jean shook his head. He was losing his  mind. On his dinner break, he'd gone home. To change. To fucking _change_. He'd peeled off his Jazz FM  t-shirt and pulled a moss green Henley out of his closet. He's discarded the wool stocking cap he habitually wore and ran some product through his sandy, spiky hair. Then, he went to pick up his fare.

She was sitting on a bench outside of her building. She read a book while she waited, pale head bent, loose, tousled curls falling forward. She wore her reading glasses, unconsciously tucking her hair behind one ear.

Jean watched her. It was remarkable to him how his body had tightened and begun to ache, on two separate occasions today. Once, when a rambunctious boy had stuffed a sugary cinnamon twist into his mouth. Now again, watching this willowy figure bent over her book.

She stood then, waving to him. She was wearing a silky, Oriental sheath dress with a Mandarin collar, in a smoky blue-grey. On her feet were strappy summer sandals. She took a few steps, made a small exclamation and lifted one foot, twisting around to adjust her shoe.

Jean held open the cab door. Her curls were gathered off her face with a silver clip, in the shape of a tiny Chinese dragon. Her eyes were made up sparingly this evening, the focus being on her small, cursive mouth, which was lined flawlessly and stained a deep, rich plum.

Armin approached, pausing in front of him, blue eyes popping vividly against the silk cheongsam.

"Going somewhere nice?" Jean asked gently.

"A gallery opening, actually," she said brightly. "it's too bad you can't come along."

_It's too bad you can't stay here with me, so I could whisper softly against your neck until you opened yourself up to me._

__________

J: [Checkmate]

A: [yes, apparently checkmate]

J: [I WON!!!!! Ha!!!! Brat.]

A: [After 4 weeks & like 700 matches. Ur some kind of awesome, yo.]

J: [u off tomorrow?]

A: [y?]

J: [want 2 play @ Kew Beach with me? Chess tables?]

A: [K. around 2?]

__________

Jean stuffed his phone into his pocket, grinning triumphantly. He's just made an airport run. In front of him was the flat, dry weedy expanse of airport green space, criss-crossed with grey chain link fences. The sun was setting, the whine of jets overhead. What would Armin be like on a plane trip? he mused. If she, it would be a neat, pressed suit. Moss green. White camisole. Hair up. Oh God yes, hair up. And escaping. 

And alternatively, it might be Armin wearing cargo pants, rolled up a little. Penny loafers. Hoodie in a funny, faded colour like salmon, frayed at the sleeves. Slight summer tan.

Jean shifted in his seat. 

_I would take your hand, turn it over and kiss the inside of your wrist. Softly._

 


	3. No Thank You

Armin rode his beater bike down to Kew beach. He did some road riding on occasion and had a sweet Specialized racing bike for that purpose. His beater bike, however, was just that - a ride he'd cobbled together for knocking around the city; too shabby-looking to appeal to thieves. A soft breeze was coming off the lake, lifting the gulls over the park.

He removed his helmet, corralling his hair with a rolled bandanna, sat at one of the stone chess tables and waited. 

Cars squeezed onto the narrow side streets bordering the park, jockeying for parking. Presently, he saw a small, black hatchback pull into a free space. Jean got out, his tall, thin frame unfolding. He looked across the park. Armin waved. After a moment, Jean waved back. He walked around to the other side of the vehicle and bent down. Presently, a small figure emerged from the car, running through the bands of light and shadow that striped the park's lawn. The figure sported paper wings stuck to her back, a small pink tulle skirt and striped leggings.

She stopped short suddenly, looking back at Jean, who was burdened with a knapsack, blanket and shoulder bag. He pointed encouragingly toward Armin.

The little girl approached. She had a small auburn ponytail, large brown eyes and tiny purple juice stains at the corners of her mouth.

Armin smiled delightedly. The little girl's hand opened. She offered him a wooden chess piece; a knight.

"Why thank you," he said gently. "Do you know what this is?"

"A horsie."

"And do you like horses?"

"No. I like dinosaurs. Triceratops." she said.

"Huh," replied Armin. "I like shoes."

The little girl thought about this for a moment, then stuck out the toe of her purple jelly sandal.

"Very nice," Armin complimented her.

She bent down and crawled under the chess table.

"Sasha," Jean called, approaching them. "did you say 'hi' nicely to Armin?"

"No," which was technically true.

Jean favoured Armin with a lopsided grin. "Sorry…"

"No!" Armin chuckled, "No, no, please…."

"Seriously. Sorry. Her mother has a summer cold so I said I'd take her today. Sash, come out please."

Taking a wipe from his bag, Jean cleaned Sasha's mouth while she looked at Armin curiously. "Let's get you set up." He spread the blanket out beside the chessboard, and took out Sasha's colouring book, apple slices and goldfish crackers.

"Well," he looked at Armin, "shall we give it a try?"

 __________

Some distance away, a pair of youth leaders and a group of children occupied a chipped green picnic table. Sasha wandered over.

"Sash, that's far enough," Jean called to her. He bent his head to study the chessboard. Rather than sitting opposite one another, he sat kitty-corner from Armin, who straddled the stone bench, one knee bent and one sneakered foot resting on the bench. When Jean looked up, one of the youth leaders was standing beside him, with Sasha.

"Daddy, can I do the craft?" Sasha implored.

"She's more than welcome to join in," said the teen. "If you can just fill out a guest card for her?"

"Sure," Jean smiled, happy to have Sasha entertained for half an hour.

 __________

The sun picked out fine hairs on Jean's forearm. Everything about Jean was lean, languid, unhurried. Armin realized he'd spent a good amount of time looking at the back of Jean's head and not at his face. He had an aquiline profile and almond-shaped hazel eyes fringed with dark lashes. Jean took a sip of iced tea; his throat bobbed as he swallowed. He had large hands with long, tapered fingers, which hovered uncertainly over the chessboard.

Before he made his move, he looked up at Armin, who winced.

"What?"

"Don't over-commit."

He snickered, eyeing Armin. He made another choice.

"That's better," Armin smacked him lightly on the thigh. "It will take me longer to finish you off, now."

As they played, Armin found himself scooching closer to Jean, until his knee touched Jean's thigh. He pretended not to notice. 

Jean was frowning now. Armin had him boxed in on the board, before he'd realized. He had one option, using his queen. He took it.

"Bravo," Armin chuckled. "Well done," he leaned forward, and, whether he meant it as a reward or as an overture, he kissed Jean softly on the corner of his mouth.

Jean flushed crimson. He sucked in a breath, glancing across the park to where Sasha and the other children milled around the activity table.

He looked at the lovely young man sitting nearly in his lap. His blood raged in his ears and he felt clumsy, and thick-lipped. He took a breath.

"I'm n-not going to kiss you," Jean stammered. "Because if I do, I'll never know if you…if you wanted me to, or if you just _let_ me because you're a nice person."

Armin put a warm, tidy hand on Jean's neck. He looked at Jean's tanned throat, rising out of the collar of his shirt. Jean smelled faintly of sandalwood and of applesauce. Armin couldn't remember ever having met anyone else with Jean's easygoing, steadying energy.

He parted his lips and kissed Jean very gently. The little kiss held incredible heat. Jean trembled as the tip of Armin's tongue flicked against his lower lip, teasing at the seam of his closed mouth. 

_Oh, Christ._

Jean's lips parted, and the sweet little tongue rasped against his own. 

Armin made a tiny, plaintive sound. Then he pulled away, ducking his head shyly.

"You…you liked it," he breathed softly, pleased.

"Yes I did," Jean whispered, "very much."

 __________

Jean's cab stood at the hospital taxi stand. He looked at the text he'd tapped out to Armin. Sighed. Erased the whole thing. Started again:

[Hey]

_Hey??_

[Armin]

_Armin, I can't swallow. I can't sleep. I jerk off again, daily. I jerk off to you and my hips lift off the bed and I come so hard it fucking hurts._

[Armin, How's ur day going?]

_Really?_

Jean sighed. A flurry of chatter as Greta and Josie opened the cab door.

_Hiya Jon-Jon! How you manong? You meet someone nice?_

 __________

She'd decided to keep the date. An evening at the theatre was planned, and it would have been rude to decline after the tickets were purchased. He was an indie film producer. She had met him at the gallery opening.

Jean pulled up to 850 Sina Court, his stomach in knots. 

She wore a little black silk chemise, a ruffled, cream-coloured skirt and black Mary Jane pumps. Her hair was smooth, straight, and held back in a simple clip at the nape of her neck. She had a black patent leather clutch and a pashmina over her arm.

Jean held the cab door open. He hoped he was smiling, his face twisted in a pained sort of way because he knows he'll think about the ruffled skirt later, imagining her making that sweet, needy little sound again. _Fuck._

He thought he'd be well within his rights to tell her finally, 'you look lovely tonight.' 

He looked at the shiny little purse. "You'll never fit a cheeseburger in there," he said.

 __________

There was a poem that someone had stuck to their fridge once that said something about _'kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises.'_ Jean had been stoned when he'd read it. _Kisses aren't contracts._ Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss. An isolated event, like…like seeing a baby rabbit, or flipping a pancake perfectly or Sasha singing… _"what does the FOX say ding-da-ding-ding…"_

Armin had kissed him on a warm, summer day at Kew beach and then demolished him at chess. Sasha had painted a stone to look like a triceratops. Armin had bought them blue snowcones. Armin's lips were stained purple, like a sweet little vampire. And it was a nice day. The end.

_[3561 what's your 20?]_

"King & Bathurst. Over."

_[3561 you have a pickup request. 939 Niagara Street. The Olive & Vine. Over.]_

__________ 

 

"Hey," she greets him softly.

She has the pashmina shawl pulled around her narrow shoulders. Jean offers her a small smile. She doesn't look up.

He shuts the door and pulls away from the curb, the lights of the theatre district dancing like fireflies off the hood of his cab.

She's wrapped in an odd silence that is unfamiliar to him. He puts on some soft music; an offering.

_And now the purple dusk of twilight time_  
_Steals across the meadows of my heart_  
_High up in the sky the little stars climb_  
_Always reminding me that we're apart._

They drive along King Street, through the downtown core and approach Armin's loft.

Jean pulls onto a sidestreet, studying his quiet passenger.

Armin gazes vacantly out the window. Two tears are rolling slowly down her smooth cheeks. The pashmina has slipped from her shoulders. She has scratches on her neck and across her collarbone. Someone has torn the little silk chemise. Her lip is swollen.

 _"Armin,"_ Jean gasps.

She shakes her head, holding up a slender hand.

"It's fine. I'm okay."

Jean pulls the cab over and throws it into park, twisting around in the seat. "Jesus, Armin…"

With an effort, she keeps her voice level.

"I'm sorry, but I believe…" she stops speaking and tries to compose herself,  "that if you ask someone to dinner, and their company is not what you…not what you expect," she swipes at her eyes, reaching into her bag and retrieving a tissue, "well, then all you need to do," her voice breaks then, a soft sob, "all you need to do is just say 'no thank you."

She looks up at Jean, and the pain and humiliation on her lovely face rips him to pieces.

"You can just say 'no thank you'. The decent thing to do is j-just to say _'no thank you.'_ There's no need to…to harm another person just because…just because…"

Jean can't breathe. _Oh…oh, no…oh, why…_

 "Armin," he finds his voice. "Please, let's step outside of the cab for a minute. Please…" He switches off the radio.

He strides around the cab, opens the door and pulls her into his arms. "It's okay…it's okay now, Armin. _Oh, honey…"_

He pulls her close. She's so small in his arms. She gives up trying to explain herself and just sobs. He thinks she is the bravest, most graceful person he has ever met.

 


	4. The Scent Of Your Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: This chapter contains a description of a minor physical assault. If this is a trigger for readers, you may wish to skip the chapter.
> 
> This chapter includes some OC's. I offer my usual comment - the OC's are there to support the canon characters, and allow the canon characters to have experiences and reactions.

The clamour of the holding area inside 55 Division gave way to the soothing strains of jazz guitar in the break room. The break room was nearly empty; a few uniforms wandered in and out for lunch containers and coffee. At a corner table, a lone figure stretched his long legs under a melamine table, poring over the file in front of him. 

"Hasty Pudding," someone greeted him.

"Tariq," The tall detective looked up. 

"You think better with a little mood music?" Tariq Nasir quipped, opening the fridge.

"This is Chris's jazz quartet."

"Huh. Really?" 

"Cherry Kirsch."

"Hmm," Tariq said, "Nice. So I guess - what? - you'll turn in your badge and work security at his shows now?"

Detective Lesley Hastings snorted. "No chance."

Tariq sat down, his normally sombre features lighting up with mirth. "Ha! You already do! Fuck, Pud….you already _fucking do!"_

"Shut the fuck up."

"Haaaah!"

Hastings looked up, glared warningly at his partner and pointing a finger. His phone rang. He answered, scribbling something onto the front of the folder as he listened.

"Get your coat, Mister Clown," he stood up, bundling together his work. 

"Goin' to?"

"850 Sina Court."

__________

"Don't touch it yet," Armin said softly.

Jean looked helpless and miserable, holding a clean cloth and some ointment he'd found in the bathroom to clean up Armin's cuts.

"It'll be okay," Armin said gently. "Thank you for calling him. We have to wait now."

Armin sat, small and rigid, at the wooden table in his loft's kitchen area. The table was made out of an old door.

"Arm, do you at least want some tea?"

"No," he said quietly. "Not yet. Nothing yet."

The bell rang. Jean went out into the hall. When Armin looked up again, a tall, black detective with a neatly-trimmed beard filled his kitchen doorway.

"Hello Armin," Lesley's voice sounded deeper in his loft than it had at the bar. "Nice to see you again. I'm sorry for the circumstances," he stepped forward, revealing a bright-eyed young man in a long coat behind him. 

"My partner, Detective Nasir."

Armin took a breath, nodding. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course," Lesley's eyes met Jean's over Armin's head. "First thing we need to do is…"

"I know."

Armin pulled the chemise over his head, wincing, and dropped it into the brown paper bag. The detectives took pictures of his scratched neck, bruised shoulder and facial injuries. They took samples from underneath his fingernails.

Jean made tea, and brought it to the table. He sat right beside Armin, one arm protectively around him. He felt a cold, sick tension in his belly.

"I'm fine," Armin began in a soft clear voice. "If I wasn't fine, I'd be at Mount Sinai. In many ways I'd just like to just chalk a line under the whole thing only…the thought of this happening to someone else is a concern."

Jean rubbed Armin's shoulder gently. He listen to Armin tell his story. He'd been introduced to the film producer by a mutual friend. He'd assumed that the mutual friend had shared details about Armin with the producer. They'd enjoyed a very animated conversation, and Armin had been asked out.

They had had dinner at the Olive & Vine, and the film producer had been complimentary, flirtatious. He had escorted Armin to his car, and gotten in himself. That's when a conversation had occurred, and the film produced had realized that Armin was male.

"He stared at me. T-then his eyes narrowed and he began swearing at me. Horrible things. He-he screamed at me to get out of the car. I wanted to but…" Armin looked at Jean, then back at Detective Hastings.

"But my seatbelt was stuck. He slammed out of the car and opened my door and tried to physically yank me out of the car…but the belt wouldn't come off…" Armin's fingers traced the angry red weals on his neck. "So he pulled and pulled and pulled, choking me. I kicked him, then he punched me. I finally got the belt off and fell out of the car. He drove away and left me there."

Detective Hastings looked at Detective Nasir, who began thumbing through his phone.

"He's lucky," Armin said bravely, "that he didn't stick around."

Detective Nasir excused himself and stepped into the hall to make a call.

Lesley Hastings looked at the young, fair-haired man. "Armin, thank you. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'll admit I'm a little shaken up. Not because of the altercation - I've probably been in worse situations at work. It's…well, It's only in the past few months that I've been dating a little bit, presenting as female. The men I've dated have all been bright, cordial. I've always been straightforward about who I am…I guess this time I made an assumption. The wrong one. I'm no stranger to prejudice, but it was so hateful," he trailed off, "just so hateful…."

"When you've dated previously, you presented as male?"

Armin blushed, "I…I never really actually dated before. For lots of reasons…"

Lesley smiled kindly. "No damn rush, boy. Before you know it you'll find yourself an old married guy like me."

Tariq Nasir ducked his head back into the kitchen, nodding at Hastings. Who looked at Armin.

"Armin, will you come down and see us at the station tomorrow? Some of the details you've given are matching up with some things we have on the go."

Armin was surprised. "Oh! Okay, sure."

Hastings stood to go, clasped one hand with Jean and gave him a hug. The detectives showed themselves out.

In the hallway, Tariq pocketed his phone, looking at Hastings. "The seatbelt detail..."

"Yup."

__________

Armin watched his loft door close, shaking his head. "What a mess," he sighed. 

Jean put the teacups into the sink. "Don't hate me, Armin. After hearing that, I don't know whether to be upset or relieved." 

Armin thought about all of the times he'd been first responder at various incidents in and around the city.

"Relieved," he told Jean.

He smiled for the first time. "I could do with a real drink now," he ventured.

Jean sat down, taking Armin's scraped hands into his own. "Armin," he said gently, "I would like…" he paused, throat aching, "I would love to take you out for a drink, if you're up to it? Chris is playing acoustic tonight. We can go listen to the last set. Want to?"

__________

They sat in a booth at Brighton. She had changed into slim black capri pants and a soft, pale blue sweater with tiny pearl buttons down the front. She'd tied her hair back with a little blue ribbon. He held her close, marvelling at how perfectly she fit against him. The music delighted her. In the light of a single spot, Chris Guthrie sat on a stool and jammed on acoustic, eyes closed, swaying.

Jean squeezed her a little tighter. Put his lips to her temple gently, in a soft, reassuring kiss. He inhaled. The scent of her skin was deliciously soft and heady. He left his lips there, planting little kisses against the bruises.

Armin applauded, in appreciation of Chris' artistry.

Jean closed his eyes. The scent was the same…whether it was Armin at the beach, in his uniform, or in this adorable presentation. It was all Armin, and Armin was fast becoming everything to him.

__________

On the way home, Armin sat in the front of the cab with him. He drove with one hand, the other holding hers. When they arrived back at the loft, Jean turned off the car. She began to shake and he unclipped her belt quickly, pulling her against him and holding her.

"Sssh," he whispered. Then he called her baby girl. He kissed her delicious little mouth, glazed sweet pink and tasting of cupcakes. 

"Who's my baby girl?" he whispered. 


	5. ...from kirsch's notebook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't show Armin his poetry...

when i walk in the door you come

on soundless feet

up on tiptoe to embrace me

welcome me

 

cotton biker t-shirt pebbled with holes

too big for you

i missed you

 

i pull you close and see

your back in the hall mirror

t-shirt riding up

a glimpse of lace

the curve of your small ass

contradiction - fascination - completion

 

i pin you against me

and watch my hand trail

down your back

addicted

watch my fingertip slip

under the elastic and

trace the curve of your bottom

 

you start to thicken

inside sweet lace

rub against my jeans

gasp into my neck

one hoarse little word

 

_When?_

 

in the mirror i watch my hand

push inside the lace

cup your smooth bottom

 

_Jean, when?_

 

i won't fuck this up

the way I've fucked up everything else

selfish, horny, unaccountable

 

_Not yet. Soon, baby. Soon._

 

for now i'll lay you on the bed

pull them down

and softly suck away the ache.


	6. Butterfly

EMT Levi Ackerman didn't like many people. But he liked Armin Arlert. 

Armin wasn't large, or pushy. He looked directly at Levi when given direction. He didn't make excuses. When they cleaned and detailed the ambo, he lifted the rubber inserts out of the cup holders and cleaned underneath them. He chased the grit and crumbs out of the seams of the vinyl console. His bandage rolls were always of uniform size. He had tidy, square little hands and printed using tidy, square, upper-case letters. He enjoyed chit-chat, but learned very quickly that Levi did not. The ensuing silences were companionable, not sulky.

He and Levi were a good fit.

Levi watched his partner clean the ambo's headlights, polishing the silver rims carefully until no streaks remained. When they were finished cleaning, Levi opened the passenger door, got inside and closed it. Armin slid into the driver's seat and closed the other door.

The quiet. spotless interior smelled faintly lemony. Everything in it's place. It was a fragile pocket of ordered peace that Levi and Armin savoured. Levi closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest.

"Order quiets the mind," Levi said in his soft, neutral tone.

Armin's eyes were shut too, only he was smiling. "Yeah, it sure does."

A silence.

"I like the way we do things."

"I do, too."

Levi considered the youngster. The bruises on his face and neck were fading from purple to yellowish. 

Armin turned his head to regard Levi, bluebell eyes serious and watchful. "I know. _I know._ You don't have to say anything."

"You have no asshole radar."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't. You just –"

__________

"Aaarmin!" a high chirp echoed in the vehicle bay. "Armin, noodles!"

Armin chuckled, hopping out of the ambulance as Sasha came tripping down the aisle in a clear plastic raincoat that had horns on the hood.

"Armin, noodles…oh," she stopped, regarding the pale, dark-haired man behind Armin. The man had a pointed face and hooded grey eyes, like a lynx.

Jean approached them, giving Armin a hug, fingers brushing the nape of his neck softly. Levi's eyes flicked up, noting the gesture.

Armin made introductions. "Jean, this is Levi Ackerman, my partner. Levi, meet Jean and Sasha." 

"Hey," Jean smiled.

Levi nodded.

"So," Jean said to Armin, "Sash and I thought you might like some Thai noodles."

Sasha handed the plastic carrier bag to Armin absently, making her way around him to stand in front of Levi Ackerman, looking up at him.

"Sash," Jean called her. She wasn't listening. She stared up. Levi stared down.

She put her index finger to her lower lip, thinking. Then, in a cheery little voice she recited, "Turn that frown upside down!"

Levi remained unmoved.

Sasha was puzzled.

"Smile," she encouraged more quietly, losing a bit of nerve.

"I am smiling," said the dark-haired man with the grey cat-eyes. His voice had a soft buzz. "This is what I look like when I smile."

Sasha sighed. "Well, I think you better have this," she held her arm out stiffly, proffering her daycare craft to Levi. It was a cut-and-paste bumblebee with pipe cleaner antennae bent at odd angles.

"Thank you very much," said Levi.

"Hey," Armin chimed in, "where's my bee?"

Sasha snorted. Grownups were so clueless. "Armin, people made of honey don't _need_ bumble bees."

__________

Jean's apartment was above a Portuguese BBQ take-out place on College Street. _Churrasquiera,_ the backlit yellow sign proclaimed. Sasha and Jean called it ' _Charred Squirrel'_. It sold slow-cooked chicken, ribs, espresso and yellow custard tarts and had futbol on the TV.

The apartment had a long, narrow hall. It had a postwar bathroom coated in tiny green tiles, radiators and a rooftop garden. On the kitchen doorframe was a series of lines, scribed in Sharpie marker with notations such as _'Sasha, aged 3 yrs. 6 months.'_

Jean had added one, at about the five-foot, five-inch mark and printed, _'Armin, aged 23 years, 8 months.'_ Then, he'd pushed Armin up against the doorframe and finally kissed him with the full measure of his hunger, which bruised Armin's mouth and pulled a sweet, crushed sound from his throat. When he broke the kiss off, Armin's cupid lips were red and wet.

"Never been kissed," Jean breathed.

"I most surely have," Armin smiled coyly.

Jean nuzzled Armin's cheek, lips finding soft skin beneath his earlobe. "but barely more,"

"Barely more," Armin whispered.

__________

"So….why?"

They sat in Jean's living room, eating _Charred Squirrel_ and licking their fingers.

"Damn, this is _good_ ," Armin sucked sauce off his thumb appreciatively.

Armin knelt on the floor, his plate perched on Jean's ottoman. 

Jean prodded him with a toe. "So….why 'barely more'?"

"You're ruining a perfectly nice chicken."

"Am I?"

Jean waited.

Armin stabbed at a bit of roasted potato. He'd thrown on an adorable mix of things Jean couldn't quite fathom; a vintage Harley t-shirt, a short, flouncy little skirt patterned with lime and lemon slices, and yellow converse sneakers. His blond hair was pulled into a loose knot.

Jean was charmed. Armin looked up. Licked at the corner of his mouth. "What?"

"So what's this..." Jean grinned, lacing his fingers together, "what's this fusion look you've got goin' on here?"

Armin smiled shyly. "It's freeing to express myself. All aspects of myself. I mean, what if the self were allowed to just…just _flow_? Who really _cares_ if one day a person feels like wearing a shirt and tie, and the next day silk stockings? He stuck out his sneakered foot. "Or even both on the same day?"

He squirmed around to face Jean.

"Like, how do you write a song? Do you sing the whole thing in your head first? Do you get Chris to play some and then you just randomly play some and then someone sings? Where does the song come from?"

"The song is already there," Jean answered after a long moment. "It's already there. I just find it."

"Exactly," Armin nodded approvingly.

__________

Strains of blues wafted through the living room, borne up to the ceiling on vapours.

"You still didn't…" A lengthy pause, as Jean took a thoughtful pull on his water pipe, "You still didn't tell me…why you've never been kissed."

It was one-thirty in the morning. They'd talked. About work and music and the city. They'd talked about Mikasa and Sasha.

_We made her. One weird summer we just went at it…we wanted her and we made her._

_Were you a couple?_

_Yeah. Um, well, no. It's a long story._

They had talked about being kids.

 _When I was little I thought everyone was like me,_  said Armin.  _It sort of shocked me to learn otherwise._

They had talked about the blue glass hooka.

 _It's social,_ Jean had said. _This is apple tobacco. Here, try it!_

_They drug test me, dude._

_It's fucking apple tobacco!_ He'd put the pipe to Armin's lips. S _uck,_ he'd said softly.

Jean took another long drag on the hooka. He tilted his head back, blowing a thin ream of bluish smoke at the ceiling.

"You are fucking fantastic as fuck," he told Armin.

__________

Jean lit two rock salt lamps, which gave off a low, warm glow. He lit some tealights and lay on the carpet. Armin kicked off his sneakers and sprawled out on the couch. 

They'd spent about half an hour doing movie impressions and laughing until they cried and their stomachs hurt.

__________

The ceiling of Jean's living room looked like a fondant meringue. Armin stared up at it, drowsy and content.

"I never _said_ I haven't been kissed. _You_ said that."

He turned his head to check if Jean was still awake. He was.

"I choose to live," he said quietly, "with my skin turned inside-out…it's sensual and scary and powerful and soft.

For me…for me to have a lover, they need to understand that it isn't a kink - although I do have them. It's not a fetish, or a game."

He looked directly at Jean. "These are my clothes. _My everyday clothes._ This is part of my spirit. It's not pretension or attention-seeking. So I guess I've never wanted to be with anyone that was seeking to cheapen that."

Jean sat up, gazing at Armin. Having said his piece, Armin smiled drowsily. As Jean watched, his eyes slid shut.

"I am a disorganized, flaky piece of crap," Jean whispered. "I drive a cab, I play vintage jazz, I have a kid and I'm broke. …but Armin, you're stuck with me now. Because I think the fucking world of you. I am right for you, and I will fight for you. Such as I am...honey, I am yours."

He kissed the smooth forehead tenderly and lay back down on the floor.

__________

Jean woke. The couch squeaked. Armin shifted. Another squeak. A small noise. A soft catch of breath. 

A barely audible whine.

The couch squeaked again. Another little gasp.

Jean froze. A strange heat rippled up his spine and the hairs on his nape stood on end. His groin felt heavy, and hot. 

Slowly, he raised his head. _Oh, God._

In the soft, peachy light of the salt lamps, Armin lay on the couch. One slender leg was thrown over the back of the couch, the other crooked lazily. 

Armin's eyes were closed, lips parted.

The little skirt was rucked up around his waist, the fabric gathered into one hand. His other hand was between his legs, fingers delicately caressing his cock through a sheer pair of yellow panties. The little undergarment had playful lace trim around the legs, and the waistband was ornamented with a small embroidered butterfly. 

Jean froze in place, trembling.

With exquisite slowness, Armin ran his fingertips up and down the underside of his cock, cupped his balls and squeezed gently, hips rising off the couch a little. 

The tip of his pink tongue poked out to wet his lips.

He stroked lazily, teasing himself erect. His pretty cock strained pink against the sheer fabric, twitching as Armin tickled and thumbed the head, whimpering softly. His toes curled inside the white ankle socks.

 _"Jean,"_ he whispered to himself, _"Jean, fuck me…"_

Jean gasped.

Armin's eyes flew open. He tugged the skirt back down and stared at Jean, heart kicking in his chest and his limbs shaking. He'd never felt so raw and so exposed. He was mortified. But he wasn't sorry.

The next thing he felt was Jean's lips against his, tentative and gentle. He resisted for a split second, then his mouth fell open and Jean's tongue was twisting roughly around his, sloppy and wet, both of them panting and gasping. 

_"I…I want…I want…"_

Jean softened the kiss. Very slowly, eyes locked with Armin's, he pushed the little skirt back up again.

"Baby doll," he breathed, "so pretty…"

Armin tried to say his name, tried to form the words for his long, tanned limbs, his strong fingers, his gentle smile.

"Show me," Jean was shaking like a leaf as he took Armin's hand and put it back between Armin's legs. "Baby, show me…"

Armin palmed his erection. Jean's tongue flicked against his lips, nudging encouragement. The front of his panties gradually dampened as Armin stroked himself while Jean kissed him, precum soaking the tiny butterfly.

His hand dipped beneath the waistband, fist closing around his cock, fingers stretching the soft, sheer fabric as he stroked firmly.

"Ah…ah…hah…" his breath came in staccato gasps, punctuated by cries of mounting pleasure which shocked and delighted Jean. 

"Does it feel good baby?" Jean murmured against his mouth, "Are you gonna come in those pretty panties?"

He tried to respond, but all that came out were sobs. Then he was unravelling, tension bursting like a bubble as he came, hot and fast.

It was strange afterward when the post-coital calm, usually so empty, was filled by Jean, pushing onto the couch alongside him and pulling him against the solid warmth of his body. 

"It's messy," Armin whispered.

Jean murmured into his hair, non-words that sounded soft and gorgeous. Armin wound his arms around Jean's torso, nuzzling closer. This was the frightening part; not the shared passion, but the falling afterward.

It was the day he began needing Jean's arms around him.

 

 


	7. Chicken Bone Soup

Sasha liked lying on the grey carpet in the band's rehearsal space because the music felt like a dragon's heart thumping.

_Boom-boom-boom-boom._

She placed her green crayon on the picture in her dinosaur colouring book to see if the vibration would make the crayon jump all on it's own. It didn't.

"_sha! Sasha!" the dragon stopped. Sasha looks up.

Jean was wearing a t-shirt. Overtop of this was a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves hacked off.

"Sash, if you want to be out here, you need to have your earphones on, honey."

She looked at Uncle Chris. Who pointed back at Jean.

"Or go sit on the other side of the window with Uncle Les. Your choice."

Sasha put on her pink noise-cancelling headphones and lay back down on the floor. _Boom-boom-boom-BOOM_ went the dragon.

__________

When they broke, Jean found Chris in the alley between the rehearsal space and the laundromat. It smelled like moist babies, as all the clothes dryers vented out from the laundromat into the alley.

Chris was taking a drag on his smoke, eyes closed, fingers drumming on one thigh. He opened one light brown eye and smiled at Jean.

"You're my muse, Kirschy."

Jean had come into the studio that afternoon with a riff in his head. A melody that had been dogging him for days. It was different than the jazz standards Cherry Kirsch covered. It was tentative, layered, haunting.

Chris had listened to it twice through, picked up his acoustic and roughed in the harmony.

_"That's something," he'd said quietly. "that's really something, you know? Where'd that come from?"_

_"Yeah. I dunno…" Jean had smiled to himself._

_"Run through it again," Chris had nodded, afraid to lose the fragile strands they'd just woven._

Jean took the smoke from Chris' fingers and nearly put it to his lips. Sighed and handed it back.

"Dude, you quit. _Stay quit."_ Chris grinned, showing a row of small, even teeth. "Kirsch, it's time, man. Seriously, let's record."

"I want to..."

"But?"

Jean huffed, "But, a _kid,_ Chris. But rent and bills and fucking…you know… _life_ …"

"I have bills too, bro."

"You have Les."

"If I didn't have Les, I'd still make a record."

"But,"

"If I lived inside an orange tube-slide I'd still make a record."

Jean sighed, long and drawn out, like an enormous bellows.

"If I had no nose, I'd still make a record."

Jean screwed up his face. "If you had no– _what??"_ He began to laugh.

Chris Guthrie flicked his smoke to the cement. "See Kirschy? All's well, bro."

Jean looked up at the puffs of steam the laundromat vents were belching against the wall. Up, into the sky, gone.

The melody nudged softly against his skull.

Like, where does a great song come from?

_From a sweet, klutzy person curled in your lap whose lips soften when you put your face close, because they anticipate being kissed._

__________

Jean had wanted things to be perfect, but everything got fucked up, as usual. Zachary at daycare had barfed on Sasha's shoes, so he'd had to go into the washroom at the school to clean her up. Then, she didn't want to put her shoes back on because they smelled.

He'd dropped her off at Mikasa's and then gotten stuck in traffic because he'd assumed it was faster to keep the cab than to take the subway in rush hour. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

He'd decided to forsake straightening up the apartment, and headed straight into the kitchen. He assembled a chicken and vegetable pie in puff pastry, green salad and focaccia with infused olive oil.

When the chicken pie was in the oven, he took a very large soup pot out of the fridge. He set it on the gas stove.

The evening before, he'd purchased two chickens at _'Charred Squirrel'_. He'd removed most of the meat, seasoned and diced it for his chicken pie. Then, he'd placed the carcasses into the pot, added a whole onion, celery stalks, bay leaves and garlic. This was allowed to simmer on the stove until bedtime. He'd then strained the deep amber stock, reserved the remaining meat, and discarded the rest. The stock had a rich, warm flavour.

Armin turned up around seven. Levi had dropped him off and taken the ambo back to the station for night shift. They'd been dispatched to a fire at a nursing home. Armin was somber, pale and smelled scorched.

"Hey," he said quietly when Jean opened the door.

"Hey, there."

"Can I…I'm really sorry, can I grab a shower?" Armin asked awkwardly.

Jean nodded. "Whatever you need."

Jean went back into the kitchen, poured a double Jameson's into a tumbler, and set it on the counter. He put on some gypsy guitar music.

Then, he set about building his soup.

__________

Armin stole into the kitchen on bare feet. His pale hair was loose, and damp. He smelled like verbena soap and had on a lime green tee and drawstring shorts.

He spied the glass of Jameson's on the black-and-white-tiled counter, and picked it up. He hoisted himself onto the counter, watching Jean quietly.

Jean was dicing carrots and celery, and throwing them into a big pot, which smelled heavenly. He worked efficiently; long, tapered fingers plucking the stems off of fresh parsley and mincing it, turning the cutting board a washy green colour. Jean had fine brown hairs on his arms, and wore a beaded string bracelet which Sasha had made. He hummed softly to himself, neither ignoring Armin, nor engaging him.

Armin took a long, slow swallow of whiskey. It burned on the way down. Levi had said that the way to cope with the nightmarish images was to imagine himself releasing them, and allowing them to float downstream, to a place of peace. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. He took another swallow.

Jean had long eyelashes. They gave his slender face a certain lushness. He was looking down, cutting up some parsnips. He had a small silver earring, at the top of his ear. Spiky strands of sandy hair fell over his forehead as he worked.

Armin shifted on the counter, a pleasant warmth spreading inside of him.

Jean opened the oven, to check that the chicken pie was browning nicely.

He straightened up. Armin reached a leg out, poking Jean in the thigh with his toe. Jean squeezed his bare foot.

Jean went to the fridge, pulling out some dark balsamic vinegar.

Armin poked him with his toe again. "Hi," he said softly.

Jean drew close. "Hi baby," he kissed the top of the damp head, bringing it against his chest. Armin closed his eyes against the warmth. Nothing was forced with Jean. It all came so easily… _hi baby…_

The pot sputtered, demanding attention.

Jean moved away, turning the gas down a little.

"Everything smells so good," Armin brightened.

"Hungry?" Jean smiled at him then.

Armin nodded. "What's in the pot?"

"Chicken bone soup," said Jean. He added a few drops of sesame oil, and tomato paste. "You don't rush a chicken bone soup. You make the stock on the first day, let it settle. Next day, you strain it and add your veggies, and the shredded chicken. Then you let it simmer."

"Huh," Armin was visibly impressed.

Jean looked up at him. He paused. "Armin, I…"

The phone rang. Jean huffed, looking at the display. "It's Sasha, sorry…"

"Hi Sashmo, what - " Jean backed up, stepped on a tiny plastic dinosaur and yelped.

 _"Ow! Shit!_ Sorry, honey, what?" He hopped around the kitchen. Armin leaned his head back against a cupboard. Jean had a long, lean back, and a slender waist. His shoulder blades moved beneath his t-shirt as he reached down to peel a sticker off the bottom of his foot.

Jean hung up the phone. "Sasha put her shoes outside and a racoon took one," he laughed. Armin did too.

Jean limped over to the stove, turning down the heat under his soup. He looked at the sticker that he'd peeled off of his foot. It was from Sasha's daily wall calendar, where she got little rewards for completing her routine. He smiled. Looked up to see Armin watching him intently, blue eyes large and cheeks flushed.

"Here," he said, "this is for you." He stuck the sticker to Armin's tee, nuzzling against his temple. "Look, see? It says: _"I did it all by myself!''_

Armin bent his head and pulled at his t-shirt. "I did what all by myse – oh, _God_ …."

Jean's lips grazed his cheek, then his chin. "You did," Jean's voice was soft, licking his insides. "You did it all by yourself, baby…so beautiful…"

"I- I'm…" Armin stammered.

Jean's lips slid against his. Armin sighed into the kiss. The stirring in his belly became a grinding ache. Jean's hand slid up the back of his neck, fastening in his hair.

"How about…" Jean murmured, "how about you don't have to do it all by yourself anymore?"

Armin made a small, choked sound. "Jean, I..."

Jean went over to the oven, carefully removing the pie.

He looked at it, satisfied. He looked at Armin, sitting on his counter, chest rising and falling and drawstring shorts bulging helplessly.

Without a word he scooped Armin off the counter into his arms, Armin's legs locking around his waist, and strode down the hallway to his bedroom.

__________

Jean kneels on the bed, pitching forward with Armin beneath him and bangs his head on the headboard.

_"Ow!"_

"Uh-oh, call an ambulance," Armin snickers.

Jean lowers himself onto the slender body beneath him. "Arm, I…"

But Armin is squirming, arms around his neck, offering warm, pliant kisses and rocking his hips against Jean's. Jean's eyes flutter closed and he accepts the rasp of Armin's tongue against his own, tasting of whiskey and sweetness. Armin kisses him rhythmically, soft tongue-fucking. Jean raises himself on his elbows, shifting a little and then groaning softly when his cock presses against Armin's through their shorts.

Jean shifts his body to one side.

Armin's forearms tighten around his neck. "Mmm, no, stay…." he murmurs. He opens his eyes. Jean is looking at him, hazel eyes soft and anxious.

Armin feels a sick stab. "Y-you don't want me?"

"No. No, I mean…yes. Yes, but…"

Armin sits up. "It's okay," he says quietly. "I get it."

"No," Jean's voice is hoarse. "You don't. At all. What I'm trying to say to you…to ask you…" his fingers brush against Armin's cheek.

He swallows. "Armin, I'm not….that is, I don't want to see anyone else. And…and I want to ask you, before you find out what a total _fucking wreck_ I am, while you still laugh at my jokes and eat my food and look at me like I'm something special…I want to know if you'll be mine. I…that's all."

Armin nods. He takes Jean's hand, opening the large palm against his cheek, closing his eyes. He wants to say something profound and moving, only his skin is on fire and all that comes out is, "Touch me…"

 _Touch me._ They lay on their sides, facing one another, and Jean does just that. Under Armin's t-shirt, across his chest, teasing his nipples into stiff little peaks. Down his back, fingers tracing the knobs of his spine. Stroking the small of his back in slow, reassuring circles. Hooking his thumbs under the waistband and slowly easing down the drawstring shorts, hands cupping gently and deliciously around his smooth ass.

Jean gasps something that might be Armin's name.

Armin's eyes slide shut because now Jean is sucking softly at the skin just beneath his jaw, biting a little and sliding his hand down the front of his shorts. It's different than when he pleasures himself. Jean's hands are larger, his fingers stronger. The pads of Jean's fingertips are calloused from the strings of his instrument, rough against the silky skin, and send sparks of pleasure through his cock. Jean strokes Armin slowly, whispering that he's so sweet, so good, and where does he like to be touched? _Right there? There?_

Armin shudders, 'more' and 'yes' getting all mixed up as he reaches between them to palm the bulge in Jean's cargo shorts. This pulls a hot moan from Jean's throat, and Armin loves the fact that he's the one drawing such a needy sound from Jean. Trembling, he pops the button on Jean's shorts, pushing his hand inside.

"Wait," Jean gasps. "Just…" He opens the small drawer in his nightstand, fumbling around, discarding some plastic farm animals and a bottle of children's ear drops. "Aha…"

He squirms out of his shorts and sits up against the headboard.

"Come here," he coaxes Armin, now naked, onto his lap to straddle his thighs, facing him. He's shaking so much he can barely uncap the lube, finally succeeding. He coats Armin's hands and his own with the lube.

Armin's eyes are wide, dark with arousal. He watches with fascination as Jean guides his hands to encircle both their cocks, slick and warm.

"God… _oh, fuck,"_ Armin whimpers, "s-so good…" He rocks and rubs his length against Jean's, squeezing their cocks together. The ache is unbearable.

A deep frisson runs through Jean. His forearms slide under Armin's naked thighs, hands gripping his sweet bottom, fingers curling inside the seam to tease at the little pink pucker. Armin strokes faster, the wet slapping sound punctuated by heated gasps and whimpers.

"I - I…"

"Go," Jean pants.."Just…fuck, just like that Armin, d-don't stop, _just…ah!"_ He slides a fingertip inside Armin's little hole, swirling gently.

Armin's thighs tense, he shudders and throws his head back as he comes, rocking slowly and milking both of them. Jean lets go, pleasure spiralling into the wettest, messiest climax he can ever remember.

__________

The ceiling fan is making a soft _whut-whut-whut_ noise overhead. They cling together, boneless and soaked.

Jean's lips find the damp blond head, kissing softly into the hair.

"You still didn't help," Armin's voice is raspy, and amused. "I still had to do it all by myself."

Jean's lips curl into a smile. He says nothing.


	8. Caregiver

"Ich-thy-o-saurus." She pronounced carefully.

"Itchy- _sore_ -ass."

" _No, Armin, no!_ Ich-thy-o-saur-us. Fish dinosaur. And you owe me a dollar now."

Armin chuckled, grinning down at his tiny Royal Museum tour guide. "Is that right?"

Sasha tugged on his hand, marching purposefully through the Museum's lobby and down a wide stone staircase. Up the centre of the massive stairwell yawned a carved Haida totem pole.

"In Mama's lab, we have to be quiet," said Sasha. 

"Okay," Armin whispered.

At the bottom of the stairs, Sasha stopped.

"That way," Jean pointed down a corridor.

"I _know_ , Daddy. I can do it myself."

Jean sighed.

The lower floor of the Museum was cool, quiet, and held a curious mix of smells; granite, chemicals and cinnamon from the coffee shop.

Sasha marched along a glass-walled corridor, past three office doors until she reached a workroom. Through the glass could be seen long, white worktables and deep banks of shelves. The room's overhead fixtures contained specially-filtered bulbs, similar to those found in a darkroom, which bathed the lab in an acid-yellow glow. The glass panel beside the door was etched with the letters, ' _Dr. M. Kuroda._ '

Sasha carefully opened the door. Inside, a tall, dark-haired woman wearing a white lab coat was bending over a table. The table held a collection of rusted metal scraps, painted and numbered. Sasha approached her quietly.

"Hi Mama."

Armin observed the way the woman gathered Sasha into her arms, face against the child's auburn head, breathing deeply. It made him like Mikasa Kuroda immediately.

Her voice was calm, and resonant.  "Thank you for being such a quiet girl, Sasha."

Sasha pointed back to her father and to Armin, beaming happily. "Armin," she said simply.

Mikasa stepped forward. In the citrine glow of the lab, the young man before her appeared to have lemony skin, lime hair and startling violet eyes. He looked like an Atlantean prince.

"Oh, good grief," she gave a small smile. "This won't do. Please," she motioned them into an adjacent break room, with swivel bucket chairs and a coffee bar.

There, she held out her hand to the slight blond man. He was wearing a crisp, navy blue paramedic's uniform. "Welcome, Armin," she inclined her head, and while she didn't smile exactly, her rich voice held a note of welcome. "My daughter has been telling me all about you."

His dimpled smile had a demure, engaging quality. "Thank you, Dr. Kuroda,"

"Oh please, Mikasa."

"…Mikasa…Sasha is a little dynamo. She's one of the brightest people I know. And probably the funniest." 

Armin accepted a paper cup of coffee from Jean. As he did so, something in the turn of his cheek, the warm hand that he placed onto Jean's shoulder as he accepted the cup evidenced the closeness between the two men.

"Well," Mikasa asked Sasha, "do you see a lot of Armin?"

Sasha had plopped herself into a bucket chair, her ponytail trailing over the back. She had twirled herself around, facing away from the grownups.

"Yes. Armin washed my dinosaurs."

"I…I, well, they fell onto the floor of the car where the dog…Les Hastings' dog was…"

"Oh…Kojak," Mikasa allowed a small, nostalgic smile, "So Lesley still has Kojak?"

"Kojak _smells,_ " said Sasha.

"Armin and I are a couple," Jean said quietly, placing a gentle arm around Armin's shoulders. "I've been seeing him for a month or so."

"Ah," she nodded. 

"Kojak smells like a farty old cow."

"Sasha!" said Jean.

__________

Mikasa poured herself a verbena tea.

"Did you have a snack, _pichu?_ " she asked her daughter.

"Mama, can I have ice-cream?"

Mikasa shrugged at Jean. "She'll be your sugar-monster later, Jon. It's up to you."  She pronounced his name with a hard-J sound. _Jon._

She turned to Armin. "Armin, may I show you around?"

"Sure," Armin's face was animated. "I…that would be great actually. This is a bit embarrassing, but I googled your work…" 

"You googled me?" Mikasa was genuinely amused.

"Well...you're pretty big news right now in aviation circles. I'm kind of a warplane buff. I was reading an article about the Oslo recovery, only to discover that you were it's author."

Jean looked at Sasha. "Do you know what they're talking about?"

"No, Daddy."

"A perfectly intact British WW2 Spitfire was found in a glacier," Armin explained. "And the pilot was actually mummified. They've dubbed him…"

"Cedric," Mikasa finished. "The artifacts arrived here at the Museum last night." she said. "Would you care for a preview of the exhibit?"

"Really?"

Armin looked at Jean. 

Jean grinned. "You'd rather look at Cedric the mummy pilot than have ice-cream dino nuggets?"

"Well, actually, yes…maybe I could meet you guys later?"

__________

Armin took the streetcar back to Jean's apartment.

Jean had left the downstairs door open for him. He entered, locking it carefully behind him. Jean and Sasha were in the bathroom, Sasha in a tub of bubbles. 

"Hiya," Armin said brightly. He bent over, kissing Sasha on the nose. "I brought you a new buddy," he said, placing a pink rubber figurine on the side of the tub.

"Pteradactyl! Yay!!"

"What do you say, missy?" prompted Jean.

"Thank you, Armin!"

Jean pulled Armin onto his lap, nuzzling his neck. "Where's my treat?"

"Nothing for you."

Jean's teeth caught sweet flesh between them. "C'mon, where's mine?"

"Armin owes me a dollar for saying ' _ass'_ ," Sasha pointed out.

__________

After Sasha was in bed, Jean made a late supper of omelettes with rye toast. Armin perched on the counter, watching him.

"Mikasa and I got along very well," he ventured.

"Yeah. Mikki gets along with pretty much everyone," Jean said easily.

"She really likes people?"

"No, actually she's very indifferent toward people. She's deeply, obsessively, passionate about her work. Her indifference lets her sort of float above all the drama, all the bullshit."

"Jean…"

"What's up, baby?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that I had a conversation with Mikasa that I should have had with you, first. Only now it's happened, and I can't un-have it."

Jean stopped whisking eggs and looked at Armin.

"Mikasa told me that you guys have just lost your daycare spot because it's closing. And that when Sasha starts kindergarten in the fall, you've been talking about trying to find a caregiver, for a few afternoons per week. And…and well, I'd like to do it. I really get along well with Sasha…it matches up with most of my shifts and hey, when you call emergency services…I'm the one that shows up anyway…"

Armin trailed off. Jean had an odd expression. He put down the bowl and the whisk, walked out into the living room and sat down. 

Armin hopped off the counter and followed, hands held out. "Okay, no. Bad idea. I'm sorry. I should never…I'll call her right now and say no. Sorry, my mistake."

"Sssh."

"Jean, please, I…"

"Sssh."

Jean took a long, thoughtful sip of his craft brew. His hackles had been raised, but why? Was he jealous that Armin had spent time with Mikki? Was he angry that Armin had been so presumptuous? Was he frightened that Armin would, inevitably, grow bored of him and the tedium of daily family life? Was he embarrassed that other people needed to craft solutions for Sasha, because he was unable to adequately provide for his own daughter?

"Daddy?" 

He looked up. She stood in the hallway, wearing her _I Heart Kitties_ cotton nightie and gripping the new pink rubber pterodactyl.

"I can't sleep."

"Do you want a glass of milk, sweetheart?"

She took another step forward. "Armin, will you get it? And come and sing the star song?"

__________

Armin emerged sometime later. The omelettes were warming in the oven.

Jean was at the counter.

Armin stole up behind him, arms winding slowly around Jean from behind, palms flat against his chest. Jean felt Armin's cheek nuzzle between his shoulder blades.

"I texted her," Jean said quietly.

"Oh, okay then." Soft, sad.

"I told her I think you'd be a lovely caregiver for Sasha."

"Really?" 

Jean turned. "I wasn't kidding," he said gently, "when I told you that there really isn't a whole lot to me, Armin. I work, I gig, I care for my kid. If I can get those three things right for _any_ length of time, I'm batting a thousand. I'm…I'm not that guy that can take you to the theatre, or to charity galas, or to fine restaurants. You need - "

"No. _You,_ " Armin cut him off, "have some very strange ideas about what I need. I'm very well acquainted with my own needs, thank you. I have a career I love. I design clothes. I collect second World War memorabilia. I paint model airplanes. I cycle. I've fought through depression and self-doubt. Pain. Bullying. I - believe me, if I have to spend any more time alone inside my own head, I'm going to go _fucking mad._ " 

"I want," he stood on tiptoe, his mouth grazing Jean's lower lip, "to listen to music. I want," his wet tongue rasped against Jean's lips, "to go to birthday parties and barbecues. I _want_ ," he pushed up hard against Jean, making a sweet little sound in his throat, knowing that Jean would not be able to resist picking him up, "I want to be yours…just _yours_ …" 

__________

There's a deep window in the tiled shower, that holds an oddball collection of tea lights, shampoo, bodywash, and a frog bath mitten. The candles are lit and the bathroom glows, soft and steamy.

Jean holds his boy from behind, revelling in the feel of Armin's smooth, soaking wet skin. Armin leans back against him, supine and utterly relaxed.

Jean washes Armin carefully; strong hands smoothing across his shoulders, down his lithe back. Slowly over the pale chest, the calloused pads of his fingers coaxing the pink nipple to bead.

Armin's long, pale hair parts, revealing the nape of his neck. Jean runs his tongue slowly up and down the cleft there, tasting rain and musk and baby sweetness. His teeth close and he sucks softly.

"Mine," he murmurs, still disbelieving it. "My baby."

The water makes sweet ropes of Armin's blond hair. Bubbles meander and swirl around his sharp shoulder blades, curling into the small of his back, dipping between the lusciously rounded little buttocks. 

Jean holds Armin snugly with a forearm across his chest, his face against Armin's neck. Eyes closed, hand lathered with sandalwood foam, he cups Armin's ass, massaging the taut cheeks in delicious, unhurried circles. Armin sighs, arching into the caresses.

Slow, languid swirls.

Jean's fingers drift inside the seam of Armin's ass, stroking softly.

"Please," so soft and plaintive, "Please, I'm ready, Jean…"

"I know. Soon." Jean's soothing tone is part seduction and part comfort. Armin turns his face into Jean's neck and whimpers.

"Poor baby," the slick, soapy finger tickles his little hole teasingly. "You want me to fuck you sweetheart?"

_"Uh huh,"_

Jean's own raging hard-on presses against Armin's hip. He's going to take his boy to bed soon and let Armin go down on him, messy and unskilled and sucking and moaning with innocent want.

Jean's slick finger slides inside Armin's bottom. He closes his eyes again, sucking a row of red blossoms onto the slender shoulder, loving the desperate little whines and growls his clever finger is wringing from Armin. He's learning the delicate, silky interior of his untouched boy; his responses, his needs.

Jean adds another finger; stroking, scissoring, opening him up.

"Oh...oh!" Armin braces his forearms against the wet tile. His legs are shaking and he spreads them a little more, bucking hotly into Jean's hand.

Jean has never fingered him this deeply, nor for this long. An odd, cramping sensation begins to swirl inside of Armin. He's panting, squirming in Jean's embrace.

Jean smiles against the soaking, fairy-prince hair. There, deep inside Armin, a spongy little nub of nerves. His fingers crook patiently, tenderly, squelching with soap.

"No-o-o-oh…God!" Armin has never before felt such deep, intense pleasure.

Jean finger fucks him rhythmically, rubbing his sweet spot again and again, each thrust wringing a sob from his shaking boy.  "Oh…oh… _no…no…no…fuck..._

Jean lets go of Armin's chest, his free hand sliding down and closing firmly around Armin's pretty cock. 

"You ready to come for me?" Jean breathes. He pulls his fingers out of Armin's backside, slapping the trembling little buttocks sharply, "Oh yes, baby…yes, come on..."

Armin sobs, gripped by a wrenching orgasm, come spurting against the green and white shower tiles.

Slowly milked. Shuddering. Tears streaming.

He would collapse, only he's cradled in Jean's arms. 

Wrapped in a towel. Murmured over, picked up gently. Carried to bed.

 


	9. ...from kirsch's notebook

you

unwrap yourself for me

unwinding like a velvet ribbon

unspooling like silver steel

 

heart spread open with two fingers

leaping

no sure place to land

careless with such

fragile treasure

 

i don't know what you see

or why you tiptoe, strain to press against me

smear me, mark my skin

open sweet and small and melon pink

 

why you want my mouth

my fingers my cock

my bed my chipped bowl

my dusty shoes

my life

 

i need to see myself through

your eyes, baby blue

i want to feel the

strength you've decided I own

 

but all i can find is

a struggling man

with hollow eyes

and

dusty shoes.

 

i love you help me...


	10. All The Shoes

"Can you see?"

"I dunno."

Armin snorted. "Mike. You can either see, or you can't."

Lieutenant Mike Zacharius sat on the back tailgate of the ambo, garbed in dark blue t-shirt, suspenders and yellow fire pants.

Even when the giant Lieutenant was seated, Armin had to crane upwards to get a good look into his steel grey eyes.

"Did you use the eye-wash?"

"Yup. I still can't see."

"Wait here a sec," Armin scrambled into the back of the ambulance, emerging with a magnifier. He stood in front of Mike again.

"Look up," and then to his partner, who had just walked into the vehicle bay, "Morning, Levi!"

Levi regarded Armin and Mike impassively. "Have that big ox put down," he recommended.

Mike sniffed. "What's that smell?"

"You mean waffles?"

"No. You."

"M-me? Uh…sandalwood?" Armin's cheeks burned uncontrollably.

"You're blushing, paramedic." Big Mike's lip curled in a teasing grin. 

"I thought you couldn't see!"

"You gettin' a little bit these days, Arm?"

"No!!"

"Yes, you are."

"Your cornea's scratched."

Mike chuckled, a low, rumbling sound like the engine of the big ladder truck he drove. "Your little itch is gettin' scratched…"

__________

Armin sorted Mike out, and went into the supply room. Levi was there, methodically restocking. Armin chatted brightly to him, about Jean, about his new arrangement with Sasha. 

Levi said nothing, which wasn't altogether unusual. But still, the air between them was charged, discordant. 

"What?" Armin breathed.

Levi regarded him. He put a large ceramic bowl onto the counter. Into this bowl would go the wrapped lollipops that anchored the receptionist's desk; treats for children visiting the fire station. Levi pulled a large cellophane bag of lollies out of the cupboard. He looked at Armin.

He took one green, sour-apple sucker out of the package and plopped it into the bowl. "This," he said, "is me."

Armin stared at the lollipop expectantly.

"That's how much of myself I share. This," Levi overturned the bag and a cascade of candies crashed into the bowl, "is you."

Armin stared at him, his happy smile wilting.

"You give everything you have." Levi said flatly. "Both feet in, ask questions later. Give people whatever the hell they want."

"That's not true, and it's not fair," Armin was annoyed, and hurt. 

"It is true."

"Why are you being an asshole? You know I am nothing like that!"

Levi was unmoved.

"You know," a scowl creased Armin's fine forehead, "I was in a great fucking mood this morning….and you just want to stomp on it."

He turned on his heel, leaving Levi alone with his pile of rainbows and cellophane.

Armin got as far as the vehicle bay when the dispatch buzzer went off. Chemical highway fire. 

__________ 

They finished late that night. Armin stood at his locker, lost in thought, fingers mechanically pushing buttons through button holes. He stopped, not wanting Levi to see the marks Jean had sucked into his fair skin. He simply stood there, feeling disloyal to Levi for evolving; feeling disloyal to Jean for caring what anyone else thought.

He glanced up. Levi's locker was open. Taped to the inside of the door was Sasha Kirschstein's cut-and-paste bumblebee.

"Hey!" Armin cried, forgetting himself, "the bee!"

Levi didn't look up. "It was a gift," he said simply.

"Sasha likes you," Armin remarked. "I have no idea why."

He sat on the teak bench in the locker room, unlacing his boots.

Levi sat beside him and put down a flat, brown paper bag. "Here."

"What's this?"

Armin opened the bag. It held the current issue of his favourite cycling magazine. Inside the magazine, acting as a bookmark of sorts, was a thick black velvet hair ribbon. Armin pulled it gingerly out of the magazine.

"Thanks," he said softly. "I-I don't have a black one."

"I know." Levi replied. "I don't want us to be at odds. I don't have many friends. I'm not going to disrespect the few I have by lying to them. I think you're plunging in here, too fast, head first. But," he sighed, "all I ask is that you be true to yourself. All aspects of yourself. And I'm here for you."

"Awwww!" Armin threw his arms around the raven-haired EMT.

"Get off me."

__________

Armin got the phone call near the end of shift. It was Mikasa, wondering if he could pick up Sasha from daycare and give her supper.

"Sure," Armin told her brightly, "Levi and I will go get her in the ambo. She can ride with us back to the station."

The ambulance pulled up to Clinton Street school. The daycare was in the basement. Armin jumped out, and went inside to fetch Sasha.

They emerged some minutes later, Armin carrying a wire cage, filled with shredded newspaper and a brown, fuzzy animal. Levi's hooded eyes widened in horror. 

Sasha's little face was shining; she was nearly bursting with excitement at the chance to ride in the ambulance. She ran up, stopping short, uncertain what to do. Levi got out.

"Hi Levi," she chirped. "Do you remember me?"

"Yes."

"Are you smiling on the inside?"

"Oh, yes," but Levi had raised his eyes, glaring daggers at Armin.

"Levi," said Sasha. "that's Gingerale. She's a rabbit. It's my turn to take her home for the weekend!"

Armin's large, blue eyes were filled with supplication and something approaching panic. "This is Gingerale," he repeated with false brightness, "It's Sasha's turn to take her home."

Levi shuddered at the thought of a scabby, smelly daycare bunny sullying his ambulance.

He looked down at Sasha, and felt a sudden, odd twinge in his chest.

"Very well," he said. "Armin, how about you and Sasha and…and rabbit settle into the cab. I'll ride in back."

Armin gained a new respect for Jean as he spent the next ten minutes bobbling a knapsack, a juicebox, a rabbit cage and a squirmy four-year-old. He got Sasha buckled in properly, and the rabbit cage on the floor between them. He opened the door to the back a crack. "All good, Levi?"

"Yes, good."

"Yaaay, ambulance!!!!!" Sasha clapped her hands gleefully.

__________

Downtown traffic was snarled. Some afternoons, the roads were an idiots' playground, and today was one of those days. Sasha gabbed and nattered animatedly, Armin half-listening and murmuring "I see," every now and then.

"Yeah…and now…here we go…c'mon Gingerale….good bunny-boo!" Sasha had opened the hatch on the cage and scooped the rabbit into her arms. "Wanna hold her Armin?"

"Oh!! _Oh no_ , Sash, sweetie, not while I'm drivingI…Honey, we should think about putting Gingerale back for now… _Shit!_ " Armin hit the brakes as a cyclist whizzed around the ambo.

"Dollar," said Sasha.

Armin bit his lip. He was stopped in front of an alleyway. In the alley was a fish truck, with faded red Chinese characters on it's side. The truck had ventured into the one-way alley, the wrong way. Inside the alley, horns blared.

The truck began to back up, either not seeing the ambo, or not caring.

"Buddy," Armin hissed at it, "I've got nowhere to go!" 

He bopped the siren; a loud, sudden squawk echoed inside the cab.

Ginglerale spurted out of Sasha's grasp, skittering onto the floor and scrabbling into the back of the ambulance.

Armin broke into sweat. "Levi," he said evenly, in a voice usually reserved for calming crash victims, "Levi, loose rabbit in the ambo."

Sasha strained to look behind her.

"Don't worry," Armin reassured her. "She can't get out. She's just having a look around. We'll get her back at the station where it's quiet."

"Uh oh, spaghetti-o..." said Sasha, who was a rather perceptive little girl.

__________

Armin backed into the vehicle bay. Just his luck, Mike Zacharius was waiting for them. He cursed under his breath.

"Hey Sasha," he told the little girl, you get to meet some of my friends!"

"Levi," he hissed. "Got her?"

"No."

"What do you mean, _no_?"

"No."

Armin got out, went around and helped Sasha out. He took her hand protectively.

"Honey, this is Lieutenant Mike. Mike, meet Sasha!"

"Hi Sasha!" Mike rumbled. 

Sasha gasped, Gingerale temporarily forgotten. She squeezed Armin's hand. "Oh…I hope he's a _good_ giant."

"Ackerman!" Chief Smith entered the vehicle bay, "You're late. Paperwork please, I need to close off shift."

The Fire Chief stopped short. "Oh, hello," he smiled, seeing Sasha. "Arlert, where's Ackerman?" Chief Smith threw open the back doors of the ambo. Armin gasped.

Levi wasn't inside. Instead, he came around the far side of the ambulance, up behind Armin and Sasha, holding a shock blanket and a clipboard.

"Sorry Chief," he handed the clipboard to Smith, slender body twitching oddly.

CFO Erwin W. Smith eyed his senior paramedic. "You alright Ackerman?" he asked. "your back playing up?"

"Yeah, a - " Levi hissed, "a little, Sir."

"Ready Mike?" Erwin asked. 

"Sure, let's get 'er done," the two men made their way into the station's office. 

Levi leaned against the ambulance, scrabbling open his shirt as though it was on fire, and extracting Gingerale.

He exhaling with relief. "Ugh!"

__________

Jean had lent the black Mazda to Armin, to facilitate picking up Sasha.

Armin got Sasha fastened into her booster seat, Gingerale safely stowed, everything else in the trunk and melted into the driver's seat.

"I have to pee," announced Sasha.

They stopped at the Super Drugmart to pee, buy some baby shampoo and orange juice. They bought a package of colourful plastic barrettes to share.

"Where're we going?" Sasha asked.

"To my place today," Armin said. 

"Yesssss!" Sasha loved Armin's loft. She had been there six times. It was full of strange things. Tiny airplanes hanging from invisible strings. Doors painted bright colours like mustard yellow and light blue. A chipped green shelf rescued from a coffee shop, which held her games and toys. The fridge was old, red and rounded, with Coca-Cola letters on it.

Armin had a big wooden sewing table in one corner. Above it was a shelf full of pure magic; jars of buttons, beads, sequins. Ribbons and bows. Sasha wanted desperately to play with those things but suspected they were only for grownups.

In the kitchen, Armin flipped open his laptop on the counter. The 2-way cam was open. Mikasa's office glowed citrine yellow through the screen. Sasha clambered onto a stool and kissed the screen. "Hiya Mama!"

Mikasa looked up, smiling her small, warm smile. "Hi, _pichu!_ How are you?"

"Gingerale!" Sasha exhaulted.

"Ginger - oh my God...Armin? Armin?" 

Armin leaned back, into view. "Hiya!"

"Oh heavens, I'm so, so sorry. The dwarf rabbit. I completely forgot…"

"We're good," Armin chuckled. "We'll…I guess we'll feed her some of the pellets she came with?"

"And what about for you guys?"

"I'm trying to make spaghetti and cut up veg."

"Lovely," Mikasa said, a little speculatively.

Armin and Mikasa had had a few heart-to-heart conversations. Armin had admitted that he couldn't cook. At all. He habitually ate most of his meals at the fire station. Mikasa had written down some simple meal ideas for Sasha and put them into a plastic sleeve, in a three-ring binder.

Armin had asked about Sasha's allergies, blood type, medical history, routine, and preferences. He'd written down the information Mikasa had given him.

He'd given Mikasa all of his contact info, and references which included Chief Smith, Levi Ackerman and his sister. He also included Detective Lesley Hastings.

Mikasa was satisfied.

Armin had then told her that he was bi-gender. He's asked her how she would like this handled with regard to Sasha.

Mikasa rarely touched anyone outside of her immediate family, but she had put her hand on his. "Armin, my preference would be that you are honest with my daughter. Find age appropriate language. If…if it comes to pass that your relationship with _Jon_ develops…I would hate to think of her coming to know this years from now. She'll feel betrayed. Left out of your confidence."

"Thank you," Armin had said softly.

__________

With a good deal of lip-chewing and anguish, Armin sautéed some onions and garlic in olive oil while reading a recipe.

Sasha followed Gingerale around the loft, squealing with delight.

"Sweetie…" Armin called. "Sweetie, remember, don't let her chew…"

When the sauce was simmering, Armin finally convinced Sasha to put Gingerale back into her cage for a rest.

They opened the package of barrettes they'd bought, and Sasha created a hairstyle for Armin, using most of them. They lay on the floor, colouring. Armin had his feet up in the air. His toenails were painted bright red, like the cinnamon heart candies that burned your mouth.

Sasha looked at them thoughtfully.

"Armin," she said quietly. Armin was colouring a starfish. "Armin, you're a boy." 

It was a question. Armin raised his head. Sasha's liquid brown eyes regarded him steadily.

He looked back at her, smiling kindly. He felt an enormous wave of affection. Here it was.

"Well," he said, "I have a boy's body. Like Daddy or Uncle Chris or Owen at daycare."

She thought about this. Reached out a finger and touched one of the plastic barrettes she had strewn in his silky blond hair. This was also a question.

Armin sat up. So did she. He stood, holding out his hand. "Come with me," he said. She took his hand.

Armin led her around a corner, entering a small room and turning on a light. 

"Oh…" Sasha said.

On the floor were racks. And the racks held shoes. Hundreds of shoes. Work boots. Sparkling shoes in silver and gold. Hightop sneakers in yellow and red. Purple velvet evening shoes, with flower-shaped buckles. Shiny white sandals. Black pumps with pointy toes. Mens' leather loafers. Basketball shoes. Cycling shoes.

"Oh, _whoa…"_ Sasha repeated, looking around, mesmerized.

Armin sat on the floor, cross-legged.

Sasha spied a pair of flowered canvas slip-ons. She put a finger out, unable to resist. "Pretty…."

"Sash," Armin said carefully.

She sat down, cross-legged and facing him.

"Sash, some people have boy shoes. Some people have girl shoes. I have all the shoes."

She looked around, absorbing.

"See," Armin concluded, "Some people have boy feelings. Some people have girl feelings. I have all the feelings."

"Oh," she nodded. She affirmed him then, leaning over and putting a hand on his cheek. "Armin," she said simply. 

"So," he grinned. "Do you want to try some of them on?"

"Oh, yeah!!" she squealed. 

 


	11. Wun Dum Guy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess in every fic that features alot of canon characters, there are going to be characters appearing that readers might ship, only they're not together in the fic. I know this hurts some ppl's eyes, others not as much. This chapter introduces someone from Jean's past. Hoping ppl are cool with it...I guess by now most of you that have hung around know you're in a jearmin world, and are ok (or hopefully more than okay!!) with that. Peace.

Chris and Lydia were singing jazz runs. Jean could hear it as he trudged up the studio stairs, his electric bass strapped to his back. 

Lydia's voice was sultry and pitch perfect. Chris Guthrie's was soft. Lydia broke into scat-singing as he entered. She sounded a whole lot like her idol, the great Ella Fitzgerald.

Jean's phone vibrated in his pocket. Again. His gut hitched. Again.

He took his phone out. Read the text:

_[Pls, would love to see u. Just for an hour? Need to talk.]_

Sighed.

"What's up?" Chris asked him.

"Nothing," Jean's aquiline face was pinched, and bore a frown.

"Huh," Chris pulled his guitar strap over his head, eyebrows raised in a way that called Jean's response bullshit.

__________

Lydia Adandwelo, Cherry Kirsch's sometime jazz vocalist was singing _'Fly Me To The Moon.'_ Jean watched her. She had long, dark limbs and her lovely hands cradled the mic, tipping the stand toward her just a little.

"Knock it off, guys," Chris swiped a hand through the air to terminate the music. "Connie, knock it off." he motioned to their drummer, Connie Springer, a silver-haired Dubliner who was a brilliant percussionist and a bit of a nutcase. "Just a bit of cymbal. Let's try it acoustically."

"And me?" Lydia held a hand to her chest. 

"Girl, don't change a thing," Chris smiled. "Kirschy, what about the upright bass?"

_"Aaarrrrghhhh,"_

"Awesome. Nice enthusiasm there, bruh. Want me to get someone to hold it up for ya?"

Jean peeled off the bass riff for _'Smoke on the Water'_ before unplugging.

__________

At break, Jean went out into the alley. The laundromat window was open. A high voice inside was repeating a sentence which sounded like, _'Wun dum guy.'_ over and over again.

Jean took out his phone. There was a text from Armin. 

_[BBY. Did u get Sat. off? Hope so, dying for u to meet everyone xoxoxo [suck] xoxoxoxo]_

He and Armin had been invited to a wedding. As a couple. Friends of Armin's were getting married at Rev, a restaurant on Richmond. The owner collected vintage Harleys. The brides-to-be were Garnet and Diane. Diane owned a travel agency, and Garnet was Armin's friend; a nurse at Mount Sinai.

He texted back: _[Yup, all set. What're u doing?]_

_[Writing incident reports. Wish I wasn't]_

_[What wd u rather be doing?]_

_[Having u bend me over the back of the couch.]_

_[....Yeah?]_

_[Or over the kitchen table. Hard.]_

Jean chuckled. _[Bad baby. Wot about over my knee?]_

_[Um….]_

_[BC ur a very naughty bby and u know it.]_

_[U mean u…]_

_[I mean i want to spank ur sweet, squirmy ass…wd u let me?]_

_[asdfhgjghhk Jean!!! idk….idk….IDK….]_

_[But ur hard now aren't u?]_

_[Y. fuck.]_

_[Bby…damn this is so bad, sxting @ rehearsal]_

_[Try reading it in a fucking ambulance w Levi o god.]_

Jean smiled, a sweet, delicious, blissed-out smile. Then his phone screamed in his hand. Startled, he looked at the display. MARCO.

He powered his phone off, heart hammering, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He was being so childish, so rude and yet he was utterly at a loss.

"That bad, huh?"

He opened his eyes to see Chris Guthrie standing there, casually lighting up a smoke.

"Wow," said his guitarist. "Seriously?"

"I don't know what –"

"Kirschy man, stop stressing. Chill."

Jean exhaled. Said nothing for a long moment.

_Wun dum guy_

"Marco's back."

"Yeah," Chris said easily, "I know. We had drinks."

"You had _drinks?"_ Jean's voice rose an octave.

Chris's mellow, slack expression remained as ever, unchanged. "Yeah, man. Of course. We're all friends, bro."

"Why…why is he calling me?"

"Rewind, my man. We're all friends, bro." Chris blew out a thin, slow stream of smoke, studying it. "Go say hi. Bring Armin. Bring Sasha."

Jean snorted, looking no less pained. "Are you fucking _nuts?_ No. No, Chris. It was a fucking mess, a mess that I made and just….no."

"What does Armin think?"

Jean grimaced.

"Aw, bro…tell him man. Don't make a new fucking mess, dude. Just…just deal."

"Easy for you to say."

Chris flicked his smoke to the ground, watching the sparks fly.

"Bro, I'm in love with a fuckin' homicide cop. Easy is a sliding scale, man."

__________

Armin panicked. Where _was_ she?

"Sasha!! Sasha!!"

Gleefully, the four-year-old unwound herself from a bolt of cotton. "Here I am! You're loud!"

Armin breathed a sigh of relief. "Sash, please! You've got to stay where I can see you."

They were in Fabricland, on their way back to Armin's loft, after daycare. Sasha was fascinated. It was as though she'd entered a forest of fabric trees - flowers, shine, sequins, stripes and checks and…

"Armin, lookit!! Dinosaurs!"

Armin stopped short. Sasha's chubby little fist was fastened into a bolt of fabric, tangerine-orange and printed with cartoon dinos in pastel colours.

"Awww," he grinned. He picked up the bolt, grabbed Sasha's hand a little more firmly than she would have liked, and headed toward the cash.

__________

Mikasa came to collect her daughter from Armin's, at about five o'clock. Armin buzzed her in. 

She found Sasha standing on Armin's sewing table, a swatch of orange fabric wrapped around her underneath her arms, and Armin with a messy bun in his hair and his mouth full of pins.

 _"Mazel Tov,_ Mama!" Sasha exclaimed cheerfully. "Levi is Jewish. Are we Jewish?"

Mikasa's dark eyes twinkled with amusement. "Hello, _pichu._ No, we are not Jewish."

"Armin's making a dinosaur dress!"

Armin straightened, taking the pins out of his mouth. "It-it was on sale," he shrugged.

__________

Jean drove around for twenty minutes before realizing his cab's roof light was off. 

"Damn," he sighed. "Fuck me," he dropped a dollar into the cupholder for Sasha's piggy bank.

He flicked the light on, got flagged down and drove west, past Trinity Park, south to the waterfront. The sight of Trinity Park only added to his malaise.

He got two more fares down by the lake, ended up near Roncesvalles then drove back west. Stopped in front of Trinity Park again. Told himself it was a coffee break. Realized he didn't have a coffee. Realized further that, in a few hours' time, he'd pull up to Mount Sinai and Armin would bounce into his cab and hand him a coffee, looking at Jean as though he was a shiny new penny, and the brightest thing Armin had ever seen. 

He grabbed his phone. Thumbed through his sites. Considered making a move on the chess gaming site. Sighed and began scrolling through his albums. There. Chris, Marco and himself at Arcade Fire. Six years ago. He was screaming. Marco was laughing. Chris's face looked exactly the fuckin' same as it did every other day of his life. Serene, sweet, heavy-lidded eyes.

Stoner Chris. So Stoner Chris had gotten his degree from Humber, taught music, wrote music, lived in a house in Riverdale with a solid, responsible guy and had two recordings getting radio play.

Jean…bright promising Jean…well, he'd dropped out of Humber, travelled a bit, fallen for his best friend, ignored the signs that told him it should have stayed a friendship, met Mikki at a rave... _a rave_ …he did love telling that story, I mean…Doctor Mikasa Koroda _at a rave_ \- mismanaged both relationships and had the whole thing culminate with three broken-hearted people screaming at each other in Trinity Park in the rain at three in the morning. _Fuuuuuck._

It had been years. What could Marco want now?

He thumbed through the messages. Marco's requests to see him. Not needy, not mean…Just… _what?_

He stared at the screen for a long time. Typed 'Hi'.

Erased it.

_Wun dum guy._

__________ 

Armin woke up early on Saturday morning. He ordered some flowers to be sent to Garnet; today was her wedding day. He smiled. A bunch of simple, white daisies, tied with raffia.

Then, he threw on a pink t-shirt and black cotton shorts patterned with tiny skulls-and-crossbones, and shuffled into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. That accomplished, he got out his sewing machine and began basting together Sasha's miniature dinosaur sundress. 

The door buzzer startled him somewhat.

"Hello?"

"Hi, baby doll."

He buzzed Jean up. Opened the door.

"Someone order a ca–" Jean's words were cut off as his arms were filled with Armin; persistent, cursive lips sucking hungrily at his own. He backed Armin against the wall, lifting the lithe blond off his feet, feeling the slender legs wrap around his hips and tighten, pulling Jean against his body, squirming madly, needing friction.

Armin broke off the kiss, panting, fist in Jean's sandy hair, pulling.

"Arm - wha…what're you doing?"

"Getting ready," Armin gasped, "for the wedding."

"Armin, baby I need to talk to y -"

Armin wriggled out of Jean's arms, grabbed him by the collar and succeeded in pulling his lanky lover down onto the floor in a heap. Armin was like a little feral cat; all lips and sharp teeth and soft sounds that were just unbearable to Jean.

Jean found his limbs shaking, his words deserting him utterly, heart pounding. He pinned Armin beneath him, mouth open against the slender throat, sucking and inhaling deeply. He was hardwired to Armin's scent now; wanting no one else and knowing that, in choosing to offer Armin the time and space he'd needed to be sure…to be ready...he'd also strained and frayed Armin's patience to the limit.

Not to mention, his own. He'd been walking around rock-hard for months; their erotic play cooling his ardor for brief flashes only. Mostly, it simply inflamed things, and Jean cried Armin's name out most nights that he spent alone, come splashing constellations onto his toned belly.

Now, the sentences he'd constructed to begin his conversation with Armin seemed to vaporize into ether, Armin's toenails scratching his calf and his hips bucking up into Jean so hard that a soft grunt was forced from his lips. "What?" he growled, flipping Armin roughly onto his belly. "What d'you want?" he slapped the little black-clad bottom, hard.

He yanked the cotton shorts down over Armin's smooth backside, and they stretched deliciously across his pale thighs as he parted his legs. Armin gasped something that wasn't quite words, terminating in whimpering as Jean sucked on two fingers, slid them between the rounded cheeks and up into his boy. Armin was molten satin inside. Jean's fingers twisted slowly. "Here?" his teeth found the scruff of Armin neck, biting down. "You want me here?" 

Armin's palms hit the wood floor with a splat, finding nothing to grab onto, but he scooched his knees up under his hips, ass in the air. "Oh God, _yes, already!"_

"Oooh, that's it...all ready for me…hot little ass in the air…j-just like that…" Jean purred, scarcely believing his own words. The little shorts strained across Armin's thighs, pressing dents into the skin. "Damn, Armin…damn it…"

Not here. Not in a hallway. Not with things as they were…

Jean flipped Armin onto his back. 

"H-Huh?" Sweet, dazed, so beautiful.

"Tonight, I promise…" Jean searched the stainless blue eyes, and instead of uttering the words he'd come to say, he breathed, "God…God Arm, I love you so much it fucking hurts….love you, baby doll… _love you_ …"

 


	12. Unsettled

In addition to being an ER nurse, Garnet Jones was an artist. She had a bit of a thing for the roaring twenties, Prohibition, old motorcycles with sidecars and vintage lettering. The invitation announcing her wedding to Diane St. Croix had been printed on a letterpress and arrived in a tin cigarette box. Armin had stuck it to her Coca Cola fridge with a magnet.

Garnet and Diane were getting married at _Rev_ , a vintage-bike-themed lounge, in downtown Toronto. It was Armin's first dressy event with Jean. They'd booked a room at Echoes, a boutique hotel, for the night. It had been expensive, but Armin had a coffee can fund for the odd indulgence, and Jean had taken a couple of extra shifts.

Armin had had a long soak in the bath, sinking into the tub a little ruefully; hesitant to wash Jean's scent from her skin. It was a scent that unglued her completely now; Jean was strong, angular, tender, authentic, and he was hers. She smiled a sweet smile, allowing herself to slip beneath the warm water.

Later, Armin sat at her dressing table, in front of the mirror. _Lips first._ It made no sense; one applied lipstick last, right? Well, not Armin. She lined her lips carefully, with a soft, neutral line. Filled them in with a cherry-stain. Glossed them with satin. Her lips were gorgeous. Slightly cursive, in repose they bore a natural, shy smile. When getting ready to go out, she applied her lipstick first. It was delicious, catching sight of herself in the mirror that way; wearing only black lace panties, and lipstick. Wearing sheer, thigh-high stockings, and lipstick. _Delicious._

___________________

31 HOURS EARLIER 

_Friday morning, 7:00 a.m._

Armin sat in the hospital examination room, alone. Across from him, there was a poster endorsing influenza vaccinations.

His eyes wandered around the room. A laminate countertop. Tongue depressors in a glass jar, with a chrome lid. Sasha would like those. Armin had caught her a few times, wistfully eyeing his sewing supplies. Maybe he could make her a jar of her own, full of buttons and bows and- 

"Hey Sugar!" Garnet stuck her head into the examination room. Garnet had a honey-brown buzzcut, aviator shades and carried her bike helmet. She'd just arrived at the hospital. 

"Hey," Armin smiled. His stomach was in knots.

"Gimme two seconds babe, 'kay?" 

"Sure."

Garnet and Armin had become friends over a distraught Hungarian grandmother that had entered the ER looking for her teenaged grandson, who'd fallen off his garage roof into a rosebush. The grandmother couldn't remember anything about the attending EMTs except for one of their names. _"Almond,"_ she kept repeating tearfully, _"Almond, Almond…"_

Armin and Levi had taken the call. The boy had smoked way too much weed to be on his garage roof. After that, Garnet had started calling Armin _'Almond'_. She was one of the coolest nurses on the floor.

Garnet swept back in a moment later, wearing scrubs and sneakers and carrying a folder.

"So, are you excited?" Armin asked the bride-to-be.

"Gaaaaaahhh!!!" She smiled marvellously. 

"Everything ready?"

"I think so, dude. I'm pretty sure. Too bad Levi can't make it."

"Yeah." Armin wasn't sure if he was saddened that his close friend would miss the event, or relieved that he wouldn't have to endure the tension between Levi and Jean all evening. Horrible guilt pangs.

Garnet flipped through the chart. "Huh. Wait here a sec, babe."

She left the room. Armin's chest burned, unsettled morning coffee beginning to resurface.

Garnet returned. "Well dude, everything checks out. All your tests came back negative. Clean as a whistle. But I can't find the incident report. Do you have the file number?"

Armin looked at her blankly.

"Like, what happened at the call? Was it skin-to-skin blood contact? Was a victim confirmed HIV positive?"

Armin took a huge breath. "I - I…there is no incident report."

Garnet leaned against the counter which held the jar of tongue depressors. "Oh?"

"I…that is, we…just wanted to get tested," Armin stammered, piquant face flushing crimson. 

He looked up at Garnet, pained. "There hasn't been an _incident_ …at-at least not yet. I'm with Jean now, as you obviously know and we haven't…or rather, I haven't…we want to have sex."

"Oh, honey…" her kind tone made things worse.

Garnet handed Armin his test results. And a brochure. "There's a gay couples' clinic Wednesday nights. In the Annex,"

"Oh! Oh, I…thank you, but I don't think I really need to…I'm good. But thanks."

"Go. All couples need good information."

She bent over, kissed Armin's forehead and swung out of the room, singing.

__________

_Friday evening, 8:47 pm_

Mikasa had relented. Sasha had wanted all of her dinosaurs strung up on fishing line, from the ceiling, the way Armin's model airplanes were.

They'd had a discussion about things with wings. Sasha had seen the logic in only having the three pteradactyls wired to the ceiling. 

Mikasa had stood on her daughter's bed, pushed eyelet screws into the ceiling and hung up Sasha's pets, including the new pink rubber one called Pandora.

Sasha had nodded off to sleep, staring up at the prehistoric silhouettes as they drifted aimlessly.

Not long after Sasha was settled, her cellphone had rung. Mikasa looked at the display.

"Jean?" _Jon?_

There was an odd silence on the other end of the phone.

"Jean, are you there?"

__________

He'd called. He wasn't sure exactly what he'd wanted to say. 

The backlit sign for _Charred Squirrel_ cast broken yellow pinstripes onto the ceiling. He sat in the dark living room, on the couch where Armin often curled into his arms when they napped, trying to nuzzle a groove into his chest. Where Sasha had lain, smeared in pink calamine lotion and suffered through chicken pox. Where Stoner Chris had sat and told him that he'd fallen in love with a cop.

He called her, from the same couch upon which Sasha had probably been conceived.

_He remembered Mikki coming out of the bathroom, holding the pregnancy test. She had been wearing a black cotton sundress and a jade pendant and no makeup. There was no blue line. No baby._

_Then, in that moment, when a bubble of sweet relief should have washed over the young college students, he'd pushed her down onto the couch and pulled up her sundress and fucked her again. He'd fucked Mikki with her panties on, pulling them to one side, filling her, thrusting into her as deeply as he could, rocking and grinding. She'd never come during intercourse before but she did that afternoon, rubbing her clit against his pubic bone until her insides wept and she sobbed his name._

"Jean? Are you there?

He'd wanted to hear her voice, and his excuse was that he was calling to thank her for switching days with him. He normally had Sasha on Fridays, but he'd wanted time to get ready for the wedding and his weekend with Armin. Sasha had given him four dollars out of her swearing jar for his special date.

"Mikki?" There was no point trying to compose himself. "Mikki?" Jean began to cry.

He'd been looking for his shoe polish and pulled out the box under his bed. He'd begun thumbing through the photos, smiling at first.

 _First year of college. Marco is standing on the quad, in a crane stance. He himself is sitting on the grass, with a frisbee in his mouth. He still bleached his bangs lighter than his shaved brown undercut, only back in school he'd also spiked his hair alot of the time. Chris is standing there, making the same fuckin' Chris face._ He laughed.

 _He was 'Bass', for his instrument. Chris, because he never changed his facial expressions, ever, was 'Face'. Marco was 'Ace'._ Jean flipped the picture over. In the back, in pen, someone had written, _Bass, Ace & Face, 2005._

 _He'd known Marco since high school. Told him all of his dreams. They'd both met Chris at college, when Jean had put up a sign in the student lounge, advertising for a guitar player for a jazz ensemble. He'd nearly wet himself when Chris Guthrie had shown up at his door. The resident musical prodigy,_ Chris fucking Guthrie. _Chris had asked to come in, blazed up a joint, inhaled a kebab and passed out on Jean and Marco's couch…oh my God, this same fucking couch…for two days._

 He cried softly into the phone. Mikki just listened, her presence quiet and calm.

_Another picture. Summer 2008. He and Marco, on the dock at Lake Rosseau. They'd slept in the boathouse at Marco's family cottage that summer. The sound of the waves lapping against the dock, and the smell of wet life jackets baking inside the hot boathouse still made Jean horny. It had been bliss._

He finds his voice: "Mikki, is Sash okay?"

"She's very well. We hung her pterodactyls from the ceiling tonight."

_This pain, this emptiness, should all be water flowing downstream, past lessons learned, only it isn't._

"Mikki, what did we do to her? We…we just went ahead and _made_ her…we never even tried to give her a proper family…"

"We are a family," Mikki's matter-of-fact, warm voice. "Sasha is a happy, gregarious little girl."

"We were never in love."

"No Jean, we were not."

"But I do love you."

"I know that."

Jean grabbed a tissue and blew his nose. "Fuck. I'm so sorry, Mikki. I'm all over the place. Marco is in town."

"I know. Do you want to come over?"

He sighed. "No. He says he wants to see me."

"Oh. Well, take Sasha. Take Armin." _Great. Great idea. Except that Armin doesn't know. He doesn't know Marco and I were lovers. He doesn't know what happened that summer, because who could ever trust someone who did what I did?_

 _Armin Arlert._ Jean's heart hurt. "Armin…oh God Mikki, Armin looks at me like…like I'm this wonderful thing, this shiny thing, like…and he doesn't even see that he's so, so precious. He's so fucking smart, and dorky and gorgeous and h-he could have anyone he wants…"

"He wants you."

Jean smiled, licked at the tears running into his mouth. "Mikki, I loved Marco in a certain way. And I broke that, and it hurts. I love you in a different way. And I just about fucked that up, too. I love my daughter more than I love my life. But…"

Mikasa waited. Jean blew his nose again. Had a sip of something.

"But I've never felt…in my heart and soul…the way I feel about Armin."


	13. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As returning readers will know, Armin is a young bi-gendered character in this fic. Armin is male, but sometimes chooses to present as femme, and sometimes masc, and sometimes as just whatever (s)he feels like. I choose Armin's pronouns depending upon what (s)he's choosing to present as. This may change from scene to scene.
> 
> I also tend to switch tenses, using past tense for most scenes and present tense for some of the intimate ones. Hey, works for me..hopefully for you as well ;-) Peace.

_Most were being good, for goodness' sake_  
 _But you wouldn't pantomime;_  
 _You are more beautiful when you awake_  
 _Than most are in a lifetime._  
 _Through the haze that is my memory_  
 _You stayed for drama though you paid for a comedy_  
  
 _I know I can be colorful_  
 _I know I can be grey_  
 _But I know this loser's living fortunate_  
 _'Cause I know you will love me...either way_

_~Colorful by The Verve Pipe_

_Saturday afternoon, 4:00 p.m._

Jean put his finger on the buzzer.

"Hi baby. Come up."

He smiled. He could nearly gauge her demeanor by the tone of her voice now.

He pushed back the steel gate of the elevator, and opened Armin's door.

She was nowhere to be seen. "Hi! Pour us a drink!" she called. He did.

Jean looked up to see her standing in the hallway. He stopped breathing for a moment. She was the embodiment of the roaring twenties.  The style suited her small, lean frame utterly. She wore a black, silk backless dress, ornamented with silver beading in a geometric diamond pattern and black, elbow-length evening gloves. She'd done her hair in springy little ringlets, swept it up on one side, and fastened a little black beaded fascinator into it.

Her evening makeup was impeccable; ivory skin, sweeping dark lashes, berry-stained mouth. 

Jean stared.

"Uh-oh," she said softly. "Too much?"

He beamed at her, going to take her gloved hands in his.

"It's so artful," he said softly. "I don't know where to kiss you."

She put her arms around his neck, whispering a few suggestions which seared into Jean's mind.

__________

Garnet was greeting guests as they arrived at the Lounge. She looked luminous and at ease. She wore dark, tailored trousers, a morning coat, and a lovely cream cravat with a mother of pearl stick pin.

She kissed Armin on the cheek, remarking on her lovely ensemble, although she seemed equally impressed with Jean. He wore his favourite dark grey suit over a crisp, white mandarin-collared shirt. The collar of the shirt was closed with a moonstone stud.

Diane arrived at the appointed hour in a '57 Chevy, looking gorgeous and giggly in a cream Hollywood sheath dress, antique japanese jacket and red raw silk shoes. Armin gasped.

During the service, Jean stood behind Armin, holding her in his arms gently. At dinner, they were seated with a few more friends of Garnet and Armin's from the hospital, as well as Diane's raucous cousins from Manchester, England which proved to be highly entertaining. Jean found himself engrossed in a passionate discussion about northern soul music. 

There was live music; an ensemble playing jazz, dance and fusion. Jean asked Armin to dance. He took her hand, folded it inside his own, and held it over his heart. It was a delicious contrast; the feel of her hand inside it's satin glove, and the smooth, bare skin of her back. She wore a very subtle scent; he had to bend his head and turn his face against her ear to catch it's notes. 

"I've never," he whispered, "seen you so gorgeous, baby girl…"

She gazed up at him, bluebell eyes and demure, dimpled smile. 

Jean shifted; she was graceful and pliant and his cock ached like a toothache. "I'm not sure I'll be able to treat you like the lady you are tonight," he chuckled softly.

She wore french-manicured nail tips, and these grazed his neck softly. She lifted her head, brushing a kiss just beneath his jawline. "How can you tell a lady from a naughty girl, Mr. Kirschstein?" she whispered.

Jean shut his eyes and pulled her close.

__________

Jean began feeling nervous around eleven p.m., just as Garnet and Diane were cutting the cake. It was in the shape of a jukebox. After the brides had fed one another a little, the band took the stage again.

The band leader addressed the wedding guests. "Cherry Kirsch is in the house," he said. Jean rolled his eyes, lopsided smile appearing on his long face.

"Jean Kirschy, you up in here somewhere?"

A few of the Manchester relatives whooped and hollered and pointed at their new friend. 

"Kirschy did a sweet little arrangement for a Wilson Pickett tune. C'mon up here, man. Jean Kirschstein everybody…"

Jean shook his head and went onstage. He stood in for the bass player and took a quick look at the setlist. Pulled his black fedora down low. And played thirty minutes of soul, never taking his eyes off of her.

__________

"I can't…" He holds her doll face in his hands, shaking. "I'm sorry, I'm gonna _wreck_ this little mouth now, I just can't…"

The door of the hotel suite has swung shut, and he has her pressed against the wall, curls splayed against the flocked wallpaper.

He samples the little red mouth delicately, finding that the gloss tastes of peaches. He presses his forehead to hers gently, willing the pounding of his heart to slow. "God," he pants, "I just…" 

Jean's eyes burn pale amber. He feels her arms go around his neck, her willowy body curving into him. It's gorgeous, and excruciating. Does she need to be scooped roughly into his arms, or does she need to be cradled modestly, coaxed until he nearly combusts?

He bends his head, nudging her lips with his own, gently for just a heartbeat, then crushing the careful red glaze into a wanton smear. He imprisons her against him, kissing her deeply, lashing the inside of her mouth with his tongue. She moans into his mouth.

He pulls back, cupping her face, long fingers brushing the curls, tracing her brows, her button nose, her pointed chin.

"Arm, are you nervous?"

"No!"

"Good. Because I'm scared as fuck, so you're gonna have to help me…"

__________

They'd both gone easy on the booze, knowing what was to come. Now Jean fixes them a nightcap as Armin wanders around the suite, enjoying it's lushness. Diane has used her travel connections to upgrade them, which was sweet. There is a walk-in shower, with rain heads. A glassed-in gas fireplace. A king-sized bed. A private balcony, with padded lounge chairs and a view of the city.

Armin finds Jean outside. He's settled himself into a lounger with a bottle of beer. On a table beside him, is a small whiskey rocks.

"Sit with me?" he holds a hand out to her.

Armin sits between his legs, leaning back against him, stretching her stockinged legs out on the lounger. "Aaahhh…."

He hands her the glass. "Cheers, baby doll. To you…" she clinks her glass against his bottle.

__________

They'd talked. Snickered about the crazy Manchester relatives, Armin squawking when Jean admits he's committed to brunch the following day. She turns her body a little sideways in his arms, so he can cradle her, kiss her. 

"Baby girl," he whispers against her mouth. He kisses her slowly, revelling in the taste and feel of her mouth, barely ripe. He catches her lips in his teeth, sucking softly. Experimentally, she nips him back and he groans, his cock pushing against her small bottom through the beaded dress. 

Her arm comes up, fingernails grazing and teasing the soft hairs at the base of his skull. He feels like a high-school kid again, focused on kissing her, both of them pretending that their hands are separate entities, tentative little creatures seeking warmth, and skin, and swollen wet bits.

Instinct tells him to go slow with her. He reins himself in, slowing the fingers that are coaxing her into unwrapping herself. He watches her, listens to the catches in her breath, making sure she wants this. 

Jean's fingertips ride lightly up the sheer black stockings as he kisses her. The callouses catch in the fine mesh, discover the elastic lace tops of the stockings. Above the lace, her soft skin. Jean hooks a finger underneath the top of her stocking. 

Armin's breath hitches. She giggles. "Mr. Kirschstein," her voice is raspy from singing and laughing at the wedding, "I think your hand might be up my dress."

He wonders if she cares that he's shaking like a leaf. His mouth is wet and hot from tangling with hers. His lips close against her neck, sucking softly, nipping at the muscle. "I think," his mouth is behind her ear, "that you might be right."

Her legs are still crossed at the ankles, on the lounger. Jean looks down, groaning at the sight of the thin strips of skin, like slices of moonlight, above her stockings and below the the hem of the rucked-up dress. His hand rests at the top of one thigh. He extends a finger, very gently, brushing against the lace of her panties. He feels a heady, intoxicating mix of guilt and lust and smiles against her neck.

"So which is it?" he asks her, "do I have a proper lady or a naughty girl on my hands here?"

She shudders, something within her loosening as she leans her head back against his shoulder, uncrosses her slender legs and slowly hooks them sensually over the arms of the lounger. "Naughty," she moans, "so naughty…"

Jean is fairly sure his heart will need restarting shortly. He captures her lips again, kissing her slowly, expertly tongue-fucking her mouth in a promise. Armin melts against him, the August night cool on her skin, which is on fire. His incredible fingers, with their firm, coarse tips are exploring the front of her lace panties. God, he has both hands there, cupping and rubbing her through the lace, kissing her and stroking her there, right there….

"I-I can't hang on," she moans hoarsely, "you know I can't."

He does know. She's erect, twitching, and oozing precum through the french lace. Her legs shudder. She's trying to spread them wider for him.

"Come, baby," he whispers soothingly, "Come. It'll make it better later."

"I-I'm sorry," she gasps, raising her bottom off the lounger, seeking more friction.

"Look," his hands leave her momentarily. "Look what I have." He's brought the little tube of lube outside. 

Very gently, he grasps the hem of the beaded silk dress. She wriggles, allowing him to slide it carefully over her head and lay it aside.

"Here," He squeezes some lube onto two of his fingers. Armin is shaking. Jean leans forward, looking over her shoulder, down between her parted thighs. He takes the lube, smearing shiny tracks of it along her inner thighs.

"Huh?"

"It's okay, baby…."

Armin watches as Jean moves a forearm underneath her leg, reaching up between her legs, gripping the waistband of the delicate lace panties, pulling the front panel down, freeing her. On his other finger, he has a dab of lube, which he paints slowly up and down her sex, mixing it with the precum she's leaked.

"Naughty brat," his fingers close tightly, "Bad girl…"

He strokes her, fast and firmly. Armin cries out, a cross between a laugh and a sob, because she's about to explode. She can't get her breath as her belly tightens, hitching, rolling on waves of pleasure. The pleasure is sharp as glass, deep in her belly. She gasps, using her thighs to push herself up off the lounger, body drawn taut, into Jean's fist. He moves his other hand underneath her flexed bottom, gripping her ass and pushing her up, into his grip. 

Armin sobs, contorting, splashing hotly all over her belly. "Baby," she whimpers, "fuck…oh, God…"

__________

She's a little ragdoll, spent and soaked and needs to be pressed against him for a few moments, nuzzled, reassured that she's his sweet girl, his angel.

She makes small noises, her shudders slowly ebbing away.

Jean shifts beneath her. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but this wet, sticky, pliant, sweet confection in his arms has him nearing his snapping point.

She giggles, tilts her face up, nipping his chin. "I'm bad."

He brushes aside a springy curl and kisses her forehead. "You are bad, Armin Arlert."

She snakes a hand down between them, patting his bulging groin. "What's this?"

"Now you're being a tease, Miss…" Jean grits his teeth. 

Her small hand squeezes. "Wanna play?"

"I don't play with bad girls," he demurs.

She scrambles up onto her knees, pale and waif-like in her little black panties. One of the stockings has slipped down to her knee, trapping pearly drops of come which trickle down her thighs, mixing with the lube.

"Yeah," she breathes, "you do."

"Armin," he growls, "Fuck… _fuck_ …" He lunges up off the chair, grabbing her around the waist and bending her over the two-foot-thick, stone balustrade.

He plants a hand on her back, eyes drinking in her well-formed shoulders, slender waist and the little lace panties plastered to her rounded bottom. She squirms, giggling. He smacks her bottom, twice. 

"Stay put you little tease," he gasps, ripping at his fly. His cock springs free, angry red. She arches her back, gripping the balustrade and looking back at him, pouting. "Or?"

"Or," the flat of his palm connects with her taut little cheek again. She trembles.

"Cross your ankles for me," his voice is low in his throat. She does it.

He slides his cock between her thighs, which grip him, squelching. Jean moans, helplessly. His hands move down, gripping the little buttocks nestled in soaked lace, massaging them. He thrusts between her thighs, slowly, breath ragged and uneven. The clench of her wet thighs is like heaven, but he knows it's nothing compared to what he'll feel when he opens Armin up. 

It's the slap of his hips against her bottom and the way her slender neck looks when she hangs her curly head submissively that pulls him over the edge, thrusting his cock against the soaked lace, fingers circling forward to grip her hipbones. "Arm…dammit," he cries, "Now…now…"

__________

A soft rain begins to fall. They are curled on the lounger.

"Huh," she reaches toward her dress. "Baby, just throw it in the door..just…"

He does.

They lay there. The rain is misty and warm, the air heavy and nostalgic as summer blossoms, bloats and fades.

They wander inside eventually. Armin gasps. She doesn't remember doing it, but Jean's neck is a mess of bloody red scratches.

"Oh, no," she reaches up. "Oh, I don't like that," 

Jean turns to embrace her. "Don't worry," he says lightly. Armin's expression changes. She tenses. 

"I - I..no, that's not good. I think I want to take my nails off…"

"Okay." 

She walks into the bathroom, rummaging through her kit, hurriedly pulling out bottles, cotton balls, tubes.

Jean peels off his shirt and slacks, draping them over a chair. He goes into the bathroom to find Armin soaking her nail tips in the soapdish, and pulling them off. 

"I - I thought they were sexy," she bites her lip, "but I can't….I can't really touch you with my fingertips, like I'm used to doing…it's not what I'm _used_ to…"

Armin's voice trails off, sounding a little lost.

"T-tonight was wonderful…but I-I need us _the way I'm used to us so far_ …at least for now…I…" Having made up her mind, she smiles softly in satisfaction and pulls off a nail.

__________

Jean hums softly. He embraces Armin under the hot spray of the rain head. The water weighs down the spiral curls, pulling the fair locks into slack wet ribbons. Armin tilts his face up. He doesn't open his eyes but his lips soften for Jean. Jean is there, tasting warm and needy.

The fine water runs over Armin's eyelids, collecting mascara, drawing haphazard doodles down his cheeks, across his chest and belly and down into the pale, soft patch of hair above his cock. Jean holds him close, taking a cotton ball, cleaning the eyelids softly.

He trails the cottonball over Armin's cheeks and nose, sweeping away the foundation and releasing the dusting of summer freckles across the bridge of his small nose.

Armin sighs, wrapping his arms around Jean, laying his cheek against Jean's chest and cupping his lover's muscular buttocks. His thumbs stroke absently. 

"Was I lovely?" he asks softly.

"Oh, yes."

"A-and now?"

"And now you are another kind of lovely."

"Does your neck sting?"

"Yes."

__________

Armin's gentle ministrations rouse Jean again. His erection presses against Armin's belly. Armin takes a soapy hand, his thumb touching the tip of Jean's cock, looking into his amber eyes. He squeezes, watching Jean's eyes shutter and his lower lip disappear, bitten red between his teeth. Armin moves his hand slowly. He's learning how to tease Jean. He feels Jean's hand grip his bottom, fingers easing between his cheeks. He doesn't break eye contact with Jean. Jean's chest rises and falls pressing against his own. 

They stand, entwined, gazes locked, soapy fingers squeezing and stroking, tension building within both of them. Armin breaks first, crying out as Jean's strong fingers crook inside of him, brushing his sweet spot. He moans openly, knowing he won't be denied.

He feels lightheaded under the hot spray, then his world is spinning as he is scooped up over Jean's shoulder and carried into the bedroom.

Jean sits on the edge of the bed, sliding Armin back down to straddle his lap. Armin's knees sink into the soft comforter, on either side of Jean's hips. He holds onto Jean, his head on Jean's shoulder, warm and supine.

Jean strokes his back in slow, rhythmic circles. His other hand cups Armin's bottom. Armin wriggles, wanting Jean's fingers again, feeling a void.

"Please."

"Where's our stuff?" Jean asks him.

"I dunno. Outside?"

He lays Armin on his belly, across the bed, and goes to get the lube. Returning, he slides a pillow under Armin's hips, wrapped in a terrycloth towel

"Okay, baby doll?"

Armin chuckles and sighs, easing his legs apart, utterly relaxed.

Jean's fingers tickle his balls softly. "You want kisses here?"

Armin shivers.

"Hmmm?"

Armin arches off the bed a little. "Yes."

The flat of Jean's tongue catches his balls, rasping slowly backward. And again. The hot, pointed tongue massages the soft pad behind Armin's balls, soaking him, flicking against his twitching pink hole.

 _"Ohhhh…."_ Armin wriggles lewdly.

Jean licks a slow line across the bottom crease of each buttock, teeth closing as he bites and sucks at the little mounds.

"Ow!"

"Brat," Jean chuckles. He moves back up to lay alongside Armin, pressing close. Armin's eyes are closed, mouth open, panting softly. Jean brings both of Armin's hands above his head, holding them in one of his own, fingers twining. With his other hand, he paints a thin, shiny stripe of lube down the seam of Armin's upturned bottom.

Armin gasps when he feels the slick press of Jean's finger against his opening. He cries out against the bedding when he feels the finger filling him, gently and very deeply. Jean works him in slow circles, coaxing him open. Armin's eyes open and he tenses, legs jacknifing a little.

"T-That's deep," he whimpers.

"You're so fucking warm," Jean's voice is low, and intent, "so silky…" He adds a second finger, scissoring gently.

Armin's hips undulate as he fucks himself on Jean's fingers. 

"That's it, Arm," Jean encourages him softly, "Relax. Push on my fingers a little."

Jean is unhurried. He strokes his boy open slowly, wringing plaintive little cries from Armin when he rubs the sweet spot inside of his body. He could easily do this all night, pleasuring Armin until gooseflesh pebbles his bottom and thighs and he begs for Jean's cock.

Armin ruts against the pillow, gasping. He aches deep inside, cramped with the pleasure he's learned Jean can give him; the kind that knots his balls and turns his legs to jelly.

"Jean," he pleads hoarsely, "please…"

Jean takes a deep, shuddering breath, filling his palm with lube, laving his aching erection. 

Armin loves the way that Jean's heavier body feels, pressing down on top of his; the way Jean's thighs force his own wide open. He loves the way Jean's fingers entwine with his, possessively pressing his hand down into the bedding.

"Tell me, Arm," Jean gasps desperately, "tell me that this is okay with you, baby….tell me..."

"Fuck, yes!!"

Then: _"Mine…"_ Jean growls, pushing inside of him. Armin is so tiny and tight that he cries out sharply.

"Stop?" Jean's voice is hazy, ragged.

"No, for fuck sakes!" Armin's lithe body shudders. Jean pushes further inside of him. Armin thrashes a little, wriggling, then his body softens, accepting the intrusion. 

"Jesus _Christ,_ " Jean grits his teeth, "God, you're so, so perfect…" he rocks gently, seating his cock further inside of his lover. 

"It hurts."

"Ssh," Jean soothes. He reaches beneath Armin, tenderly stroking his cock. Armin whines, pushing into his hand, feeling Jean's thickness move further inside of him.

Jean nuzzles his face. "Want me to stop, sweetheart?"

"N-no, just.. _ah_ …rub me harder… _yes…God_ …" Armin's hips roll up. Jean instinctively moves his knees a little, finally finding the angle at which he and Armin fit together.

He slides in smoothly, eliciting a long, hot moan from Armin. _"Oh yeah, God…"_

Jean begins a slow rhythm, fucking his sweet blond baby, utterly lost in Armin's delicacy, his cries of pleasure, his eagerly spread legs, his sweet, lithe body bent willingly over his Centre Island beach towel. 

"More," Armin sobs, pushing at his hand, needing the friction of the stroking to sweeten the ache of being filled. "Do it more…" He squirms as Jean strokes him firmly. "H-Harder…harder… _aaaah!!!"_ He shudders then, sobbing with pleasure, his small buttocks clenching convulsively.

"God…Armin…Armin…" Jean's rhythm becomes erratic then a little frantic as he feels his body beginning to tighten, a delicious lust building and then, suddenly, spilling over, hot and hard. 

Armin's eyes slide shut as he feels Jean's heat blossom inside of him. Finally.

"Yes," he whispers, _"yes…"_


	14. Clues

Seaweed. Pale, soft seaweed. That's what his hair reminded Detective Lesley Hastings of. Adding to the illusion was the bruised, blueish skin, and the shredded remains of what had been a sequined shawl, tangled like a fisherman's net.

"Damn," he sighed. Not the way he'd have chosen to watch the last sunrise of the summer.

He stood at the opening of a round cement runoff tunnel, which fed into a creek, in a conservation area east of the city. The last grey shreds of night were giving way to dawn. The dew was setting. His feet were wet. 

Tariq Nasir picked his way over to his partner, putting a paper coffee cup into Hastings' hand. "Pud,"

"Morning. How's Moonie?"

"Pissed off that I woke the baby." Tariq regarded the prone waif, lying in a small trickle of water, just inside the runoff tunnel. "Do we have an ID on her?"

"Him."

Tariq's eyes narrowed. The coroner's team had arrived and were beginning their examination.

Hastings approached them. "Morning, Staines."

"Morning, Les."

"Can you turn him for me?"

The coroner rolled the body gently, revealing deep purple contusions crossing the victim's neck.

Hastings nodded. 

Tariq was scribbling furiously into his notepad. "That's four, Pud. Four including Armin Arlert."

"Three," corrected Hastings. "Armin Arlert got away."

__________

'Back To School Supplies' was typed at the top of the crumpled photocopy from Clinton Street School. Jean stood in the middle of a packed aisle at OfficeMart, in front of a dizzying array of pencils, markers, crayons, erasers and notebooks.

"Sasha," he called, looking up. "Sash, you stay right where I can see you today. Okay?"

"Aye-aye, Captain!"

Jean stared at his daughter, in utter puzzlement.

Then, back to the canary yellow list. "How…how can this be _back_ to school? We've never even _been_ to school yet! All this stuff for _kindergarten?_ "

"Daddy, look!!" Sasha was standing by a display of small pencil toppers, shaped like animal heads. She squeezed the sheep one. _Baaaaaah_ , it said.

"Daddy, _please?"_

His phone rang. "Stay put," he said. "Hello?"

"Bass!" said the voice on the other end of the phone. "thanks for picking up."

Jean's throat constricted. 

"Hey," he managed. "I meant to…sorry…it's been…"

"I know," said Marco Bodt. There was a long pause during which Jean watched Sasha squeezing animals heads.. _mooooo….baaahhhh...._

Marco broke the silence. "Look," he said, "do you have twenty minutes for me this week? Can we grab a coffee or a beer?"

"I…"

"Please, man?"

"Okay. Next Wednesday night, Brighton?"

"Thanks, Bass."

They disconnected. Jean looked up. "Sasha!"

"I'm here, silly," said a little voice behind him. He knelt down, looking into his daughter's large brown eyes. She had slender, arching eyebrows, like Mikki. The same small, bow-lipped mouth. The same scowl, with two lines of exactly the same length. He pulled her close.

She pushed back, looking at him. Put her tiny hand on his face. "I think you need a treat, Daddy" she said.

__________

Armin was small enough to squeeze underneath the car and grasp her hand. She couldn't have been more than fourteen. The mangled wreckage of her bicycle stuck out from underneath the car, twisting like a modern art sculpture. Her head was wedged beneath the drivetrain.

"Can you hear that sound?" he asked her gently. "that means we're going to lift the car up now, Parmi."

"Please," she squeezed his hand, her young face a mess of tears and asphalt, "Please don't leave me."

The rescue team wanted the underside of the vehicle cleared. "Let's go, ambo," Mike Zacharius called.

"Negative," Armin responded. 

Across from him, Levi's sharp face appeared in the space beneath the car. His keen, grey eyes appraised the undercarriage of the vehicle which had the victim pinned. His eyes met Armin's and he nodded.

"Rescue, we need to monitor," Levi relayed.

Armin squeezed the youngster's hand. "You're going into grade ten, right Parmi?" he asked gently.

The vehicle groaned and shuddered as the rescue team began to lift.

__________

The team at Mount Sinai was ready for the ambo. Levi and Armin transitioned the victim into their care and waited for their gurney. Armin's stomach rumbled. 

"Deli?" he asked Levi.

"Corned beef then," Levi nodded. He grabbed the younger EMT's arm. "That was the right call," he affirmed. "there was material embedded into her back and legs. Could've been much worse."

They sat on the tailgate of the ambo, stuffing themselves with deli sandwiches.

"Sasha says 'hi'," Armin ventured. "she starts kindergarten on Monday."

"I hope the kindergarten is ready," Levi said evenly.

Armin laughed.

"You're different," Levi remarked quietly.

Armin flushed, a shy, dimpled grin appearing.

"Oh, no," Levi sighed.

Armin looked up at him, mirthful and unapologetic. "Oh, yes!"

Levi regarded his enigmatic young partner for a long moment. "Today," he said, "you took a calculated risk. You assessed the situation and made a call. Your choice fell outside of protocol but it was the right call."

"Mmm," Armin nodded, cheeks full of pastrami.

"So bear that in mind when you make other types of choices."

"Can I have your pickle?"

__________

Marco had called Chris. Jean had called Chris. Then Marco had texted Chris. Then Jean had left a voice message. Chris Guthrie took his iphone out of his pocket and stuffed it into the breadbox under a package of crumpets and slammed it shut.

He'd wandered into the sunporch, leaving his friends and their drama and angst inside of the breadbox. The sunporch was calm. It had screened windows on three sides, two old couches, Kojak's bed, assorted shelves stuffed with books and newspapers. A large, boxy veneered coffee table with ugly turned legs squatted in front of one of the couches.

Chris sank into the couch and leaned back, bathing in the late summer sun. 

All was well again. He nodded off.

A while later, he heard Les pull up outside. So did Kojak, and he heard the aging shepherd bark a greeting through the back screen door. He sighed. There was a chance that he'd be left undisturbed, to nap. A slim chance. Make that no chance.

He heard Les enter the kitchen, then the spatter of kibble into Kojak's bowl. Kojak had flunked out of the K9 unit. That was nine years ago. Les loved that dog more than anything. Except maybe…

He heard the sunporch floorboards creak as Les Hastings entered. Les bent down, kissing Chris on the mouth, gently.

"Hi, Papi," Chris smiled, without opening his eyes.

"How you know it's me?" Les snorted. "I could be someone robbing the place."

"A burglar wouldn't feed Kojak." Chris opened one amber eye. Les looked tired, tie askew and his shoulder bag stuffed with files. He plopped the bag onto the coffee table, exited, and returned, placing Chris' guitar onto his torso.

"I need some thinkin'  music, baby." he murmured.

"Mmm."

Chris's hand wandered up the neck of the instrument. He began to play, a slow, easy jam, that wandered in and out of Bob Marley, Muddy Waters, Smokey Robinson.

Les went to get himself and Chris a beer. He ditched his tie, rolled his sleeves up and spread his notes out across the surface of the coffee table. Slowly, he decompressed. He allowed his mind to wander. They had three dead youngsters, all young males presenting as female. And so far, his only lead was a recurring set of strangulation marks.

The sun's rays lengthened. Les stared into space, thinking. 

Chris played, serene and fluid, leaving the drama that surrounded him inside of the breadbox.

__________

There is something wrong. Armin's not sure what. He doesn't have a lot of experience with relationships. Well, none. Perhaps people need to rebalance, or to readjust once they've become lovers. 

He feels contented, awakened, delicate, empowered. He's trying not to…well, to _need_ Jean, but Jean and his family and friends have completed his life in a wonderful way.

He's fallen in love. He wants to know all about Jean. He's stared in fascination at Sasha's baby pictures. Pored over Jean's sketchbook. Suffused with pleasure to discover that Jean had written poetry about him.

Sometimes, Jean awakens him in the middle of the night, pulling him close, their arms and legs entwining. He's cuddled, and kissed, and bitten gently until he hooks a leg over Jean's hip, and Jean's slick fingers push inside of him. He could lay that way for hours, rocking gently, his hard-on nudging lazily against Jean's, Jean's fingers coaxing him open until he bursts the bubble of the dark with a raspy moan. 

He writhes against Jean, his slender body burning a little when Jean pushes inside of him, slowly. Jean's belly tightens against his balls, and his hands grip Armin's taut ass firmly, holding him still. Sometimes, Jean thrusts into him just like this, steadily and not always gently, groaning with pleasure.

_That's it, baby boy, that's it..._

Sometimes, Jean rolls him onto his back, pinning him down, his teeth against Armin's neck. Armin struggles, writhing himself to orgasm.

Jean loves the way that Armin's pleasure sounds break the stillness of the darkened bedroom. The plaintive cries come from his heart, and they fill Jean with awe.

They are sounds of trust, and of longing. They are sounds he doesn't deserve.

__________ 

_What do you need her for? Marco's voice is rough with hurt, and with anger._

_She's pregnant._

_How can she be pregnant? We're fucking engaged!_

_She's pregnant and I'm glad she's pregnant._

_I don't know you anymore…I don't know who the fuck you are…what the fuck is wrong with you?_

 


	15. What Goes Around...

"Sasha, sit up please," Mikasa sighed.

"Sit up, please," Sasha parroted, talking to her plastic triceratops.

Mikasa Kuroda's condo was an eclectic mix of Japanese and western aesthetic; the dining table was low, with tatami mats and cushions upon which to kneel, or to sit. She'd invited Jean to stay for a cold supper when he'd brought Sasha back on Sunday night.

Sasha was excited about kindergarten, overtired and squirmy.

"Rrrrrr," she buried her triceratops' face in her potato salad.

"Sasha!" Both parents reprimanded her at the same time.

Jean looked at Mikasa across the table. 

"That's it," said Mikasa quietly to her daughter, "you're finished for now."

"Mama, I want a creamsicle!"

"No."

Sasha began to whine. _"Daddy!"_

Sasha was made to carry her plate into the kitchen, then lifted up to wash her triceratops in the sink.

Mikasa knelt on the porcelain tiles, holding her daughter by the shoulders.

"Now," she said firmly, "tomorrow is a special day for you. Armin has made you a lovely new dinosaur dress. You've got a big-girl school bag. You'll see all of your friends. So how about you play for a few minutes in your room quietly, and I will think about a small treat before bed."

Sasha pulled her lip back in. "A big treat?"

"A small treat."

__________

Jean watched Mikki. He smiled. She was an unusual woman. Tall, with silky ebony hair. Fine skin, long limbs. She was dry, ironic, and at times dispassionate. He'd known the moment she entered his orbit that they'd be drawn together. He remember that year as intense, creative, fucked-up. 

He'd kissed Marco for the first time at a concert. It was an outdoor music festival, night time, packed bodies, blue strobe lights. It was hot. Men and women were both shirtless, people were dancing, he was high. There had been subtle changes between Marco and himself. Marco's arm around his shoulder more often. Closer hugs. Marco had sat on his lap a few times. Marco had tasted like orange snowcone, and hash. He'd licked the inside of Jean's mouth and the shock had been delicious.

"Jean!" _Jon._

He stared at Mikasa. 

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"You'll meet us in the morning, then?"

__________ 

Armin stood at the taxi stand outside of Mount Sinai hospital. The morning was ripening, clear and sunny. 

Metro cab 3561 pulled up to the curb. Armin tossed his duffle bag into the back seat, then opened the front door and bounced in beside Jean.

"Coffee?"

"Hell, yes." He accepted the cup from Armin, leaned over and put his hand to Armin's face, pulling him close for a lingering kiss.

"Good morning," he whispered. He set off in the direction of Clinton Street School.

Greta and Josie, the two filipino nurses who were often his patrons, watched the cab pull away, with interest.

"That's Armin, the ambo driver." Greta observed, jerking her thumb in the direction of the cab.

"Armin and Jon-Jon," Josie nodded, smiling. "He's a nice boy."

__________

Sasha's dinosaur dress had pleats and little straps which fastened with sunny yellow buttons. She wore a purple t-shirt underneath it, and Mikasa had plaited her hair. 

"We have two pairs of shoes," she explained to Armin. "Our outside shoes and our _inside shoes._ My inside shoes are my purple shoes."

Armin knelt down and gave her a hug. "Enjoy your day, sweetie." Her little arms squeezed Armin's neck tightly. He smelled like campfire and bandaids.

The schoolyard was filling up with children. Mrs. Ali, Sasha's kindergarten teacher appeared, ready to welcome the new arrivals.

"Oh," said Sasha, excitedly. "That's Mrs. Ali, Mama."

Mikasa took one of her hands, and Jean took the other. "Ready?"

"Yes!"

They walked Sasha into the schoolyard. "Remember," she twisted impatiently in their grasp. "You said I could walk over to Mrs. Ali by myself! I'm _big_ now."

Mikasa pressed a kiss to the top of her daughter's head. Jean knelt down, pulling her close and growling into her ear.

"Big tiger," she growled.

"Bigger tiger," he rumbled back.

She turned then, running the rest of the way across the asphalt to meet her teacher.

Mikasa smiled. Jean teared up.

__________

"Why don't we ever talk about Marco?"

Jean's head shot up. He was stirring a curry. Armin was perched on the counter, hair pulled into a bun with a chopstick rammed through it. His large, blue eyes regarded his lover patiently.

Jean said nothing.

"You guys were good friends," he ventured. "You and Chris and Marco. And Mikasa?"

"Noooooo," Jean said slowly. "Not Mikki. Mikki and Marco didn't get along." 

Jean winced, knowing it was bitterly unfair to have implied that he had played no part in their discord.

He chopped some coriander, scraping it into the curry pan. 

"Huh. Why?"

Jean stared at the wooden spoon swirling through the fragrant chicken, chickpeas, carrot, and potato.

"Arm, Marco and I were together for a while." It spilled out. He heard himself say it, before he'd even had a chance to roll it around on his tongue, to sample the truth.

"Ohhhh." Armin exhaled a long breath. "You mean you… _oh."_

Jean's chest felt tight. He watched a carrot coin rise out of the curry, and poked it back down into the sauce. 

"Like," Armin ventured in a small voice, "like, for a _long_ time? Like since high school?"

"No."

Armin reached out, touching Jean's thigh with his toe. "Then like what?"

Jean turned down the stove and put a lid onto the pan. He went over to the table, opening Sasha's new Dino Babies knapsack. It smelled like new vinyl. He began to place items inside; her crayons, her purple inside shoes, her new sheep pencil. _Baaaahhh,_ it said.

"Arm, have you ever been afraid of hurting someone? Of disappointing them badly? Of being a disappointment?"

"Were you…were you afraid of disappointing Marco?"

"No," Jean whispered. "I'm afraid of disappointing you."

Sasha flounced into the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the spicy aroma. "I don't have to eat that, right?" she asked.

"No, honey," said Jean. "you can have a grilled cheese. And carrot sticks."

"No carrot sticks."

"Yes, carrot sticks."

__________

After dinner, Jean went to give Sasha her bath. Armin wandered absently around the apartment. He stared out of the window, the Charred Squirrel sign striping his fine features in lemony light.

He looked at Jean's photographs again, scrutinizing them with renewed interest. He picked up one of the frames. It contained a picture of Chris, Jean and Marco. They were on a beach, and there was a tiki bar in the background. He ran a finger over Marco. A tall, broad-shouldered, freckled man with kind, open features. He was even taller than Jean.

Armin pulled one of Jean's college annuals out of the shelf, leafing through it. He grinned involuntarily at the black & white stage band photos. Jean's hair was a wild, spiked mess. His angular face was so handsome. But younger, impish. 

"Marco is in town," Jean said from the living room doorway. He said it carefully, as though he'd rehearsed it in the bathroom. "He lives in Vancouver now. He's here because his grandpa died. He's asked me to meet up with him."

Armin closed the book, replacing it into the shelf.

Jean sat down. Armin came to sit beside him, feet tucked beneath him, quiet and watchful.

Jean opened his mouth, and shut it again. He made himself look at Armin. He put a hand up, brushing long strands of pale hair out of Armin's eyes. Armin caught his hand, holding it tightly. "Jean," he asked softly, "what's going on, baby?"

__________

Jean stood in the deep doorway of the dry-cleaners across the street from Charred Squirrel. He lit up a smoke, took a long drag and exhaled, staring up at his apartment window. 

"Ugh," he flicked the lit smoke into a puddle. He swirled takeout coffee in his mouth, wondering if it cancelled out the one drag he'd taken. He sighed.

A warm September drizzle hung in the streetlights. He shivered, pulling his stocking cap low over his ears and huddled in the doorway.

He'd told Armin he was going out for a package of naan and a bottle of wine. That had been an hour ago. He'd rung Chris, but Chris hadn't picked up. He wasn't about to ring Mikki. Again.

He stared up at the pair of windows above the yellow BBQ Sign. He saw Armin rise from the couch, pulling the chopstick from his hair and shaking it loose. He walked out of view, reappearing in the kitchen window. Then he turned suddenly, vanishing. When he reappeared, Sasha was on his hip, rubbing her eyes and clutching her pink rubber pterodactyl. Holding Sasha in one arm, Armin opened the fridge, taking out a little box of mango juice and offering it to her. He walked out of sight, to take her back to bed.

Jean's throat ached. The streetlights blurred into damp, refracted circles…beginning, ending and being reborn again.

 


	16. Pandora's Box

Once Sasha was settled back into bed, after two renditions of the Star Song, the ache inside of Armin's belly returned. He sat on the couch, still and quiet and waited for Jean to come back. He leafed through the magazines on the coffee table. He found an electric bill, a thai takeout menu and a birthday card to Jean, from Kojak, Les and Chris's dog. He'd never gotten a birthday card from a dog before. He chuckled, and his throat tightened, and he wanted so badly to stop feeling like a visitor in Jean's life.

He tried to sit calmly when Jean walked in, but found himself in the hallway, pressed against his tall, lean lover, arms around his neck and face buried against his shoulder. They stood in the hall, silently, entwined. The naan packet slid to the floor with a soft thump.

"It's okay," Jean whispered, lifting Armin off his feet. "Oh honey…"

Jean went into the bedroom and returned carrying a battered Dr. Marten's shoebox.

"I don't know where to start," he said. "I've got some pictures…"

He sat on the brown couch, Armin curled against his side, and opened the box.

Armin picked a photo up. A picture of Jean, Marco and Chris clowning around on campus. Jean told Armin the story of how he and Marco had met Chris.

Another picture. High school. Jean and Marco wearing t-shirts commemorating the year 2000. Instead of Y2K the shirts read Y2GAY.

"Cool," Armin smiled. "You guys look so happy. Didn't high school suck? Didn't you get bullied?"

"Sometimes, " Jean nodded. "But later on, not so much. I was in a band and we played at school dances and shit. Marco was the president of GSA at our school. He helped a lot of kids to feel a lot safer. He was big. He was an openly gay athlete, and that was a huge deal. It shouldn't have been, but it was."

"Were you guys a couple in high school?"

"God, no. I was with our drummer, Freddy Friday. He knew more about the birth of American jazz music than anyone I've ever met. I dated girls, too."

"That was his real name, Freddy Friday?"

"Yeah. He was from Quebec."

Jean pulled out pictures from Humber College. "Marco ran the student radio station," Jean explained, showing Armin a picture of Marco in a booth, with headphones on. "He played all kinds of shit. He played Chris' music."

"And you were together in College?"

Jean laughed again. "No, not yet."

"Really?"

"Really. Most of our lives we were best friends. You'd really like Marco. He's outgoing and funny." Another picture. "Look, he was such a dork. He wore sweater vests and rolled up his jeans."

"So, then when….?"

Jean pulled out a tattered event poster. "We hooked up at Rivendell. It was a music festival at Downsview Airforce Base. It was huge. Cops came."

"Did you get arrested?"

Jean laughed out loud, "No," he replied, still chuckling. _"But one year...the first year we went, Chris got arrested!"_

_"No shit!"_

"Oh, yes." Jean shook his head, smiling. "We were both nineteen. Another summer though...later on...I guess I was twenty-two...we were partying. We were all dancing, guys and girls, people were stripping, hugging, grinding. Sharing tokes. I kissed Marco that night."

Jean pulled out more pictures, handing them to Armin to leaf through. Armin looked at them, one by one. He stopped, looking at a picture of Jean and Marco, sitting together on some rocks on a northern Ontario beach, arms around one another.

"But you were together here."

"Yeah."

Armin said nothing.

"It was the summer of '08. Up at his parents' cottage. His parents were great. They were so proud of him. I liked being there. My parents were being dicks about things. We slept in the boathouse that summer."

_Jean remembered the feeling. It was like driving in a car, through tall trees. Through light, and shadow. Feelings had washed over him. Lust, nostalgia, regret, longing, unease. He and Marco had pushed their bond onto delicate ground. He'd wake up, barely able to contain himself until Marco's parents went into town for groceries and he and Marco could fuck in the boathouse. Almost immediately afterward, as the waves jostled and lapped against the walls and the heat of the day crept inside, Jean would experience a wash of melancholy, like an echo. Like raindrops, smearing a child's drawing left carelessly outdoors._

Armin had gone into the kitchen, returning with two glasses of the wine Jean had bought. He had a piece of torn naan stuck in his mouth. He looked like a little bird.

_I love you, Arm._

"What then?" Armin asked.

"Well, Marco went to Chile for a few months. He always wanted to travel. He took business in school, but he was at a loose end."

"Did you break up?"

"We left things sort of up in the air."

Jean's hazel eyes flicked down, his smile fading. "I think Marco felt right about us being a couple," he stopped, gazing around the dim living room. "I just…I don't know. I missed how things were, before. Because it wasn't the same. You know, you can love someone so much…but it's not the same kind of love… _as love."_

Armin quirked an eyebrow. "I don't think that should be a song lyric," he offered.

Jean slapped his thigh. "Brat."

"So…?"

"Aren't you getting hungry?" 

"I can wait."

"So, I didn't know what to do. So I did nothing. We saw each other on and off. We skyped. He sent me stuff. He came back to Toronto the next summer. He asked me to come up north, but by then Cherry Kirsch had established itself as a jazz band, and we were getting tons of gigs. Festivals, weddings, clubs."

"Were you on the cover of the Rolling Stone?"

Jean snorted. "No. But we were in NOW Magazine a bunch of times. And Billboard. Look," Jean pulled out some articles.

"Nice shades!" giggled Armin.

Jean handed him a black postcard, bearing an image of a bare tree in a rainstorm. "Skyy Indoor Rain," he told Armin. "It was an indoor party with a water stage, where it rained on you. The sound was off the wall. Super fucked-up shit. And…..there she was."

_Mikki had stood on the water stage, head tilted up and eyes closed. Her hair streamed like ebony ribbons, her cotton tank top melting away to nothing except dark, erect nipples. Her power and poise had frozen Jean's breath in his body._

"No chance," Amin shook his head. "that never happened."

"It happened."

"I'd never felt anything like that before, either. It was something entirely _different_ , yet again." He lifted his glass to his lips. 

"That would have scared the shit out of me," remarked Armin.

"It did," Jean smiled. "It was this, just totally weird thing. Water, blue strobe lights, a wall of sound. I danced close to her, and then she opened her eyes, reached out and slowly touched my face, the way blind people do, to see what you look like, you know? I thought she was blind for a minute. Then, she put my hands on her face, too…."

"You're making this up."

"I'm not."

"Dr. Kuroda did _not_ do that."

"Ask Chris," Jean offered. "He was there."

Jean's phone rang. He looked at it. "It's Les," he said.

"Lesley?"

"No dude, it's me," Chris said.

"Hah, we were just talking about you! About Skyy Indoor Rain."

"Fuck, man. Dude, have you seen my phone?"

Jean frowned. "No, why? You lost it?"

"Yeah, bro. I can't find it anywhere. Can you like, call it?"

"Why don't you call it?"

"Oh, yeah. I guess I could do that. Armin there?"

"Yeah."

"Good," said Chris. He hung up.

_Mikki had debated things with him. She had invited him to the open-house at the University where she was earning her doctorate. She hadn't held his hand, or kissed his cheek, or flirted with him. She had explained each display with an odd mix of accuracy, and passion._

_She'd asked him to an outdoor film at High Park. Afterward, she'd taken him to a great coffee house and grilled him for two hours about the differences between jazz, soul and blues. She'd fixed him with dark, steady eyes, as though the contents of his mind were the only thing of any interest to her. She had expected his undivided attention, and had accorded him hers._

_He'd held her on his lap, cupping her thighs, groaning as she'd eased herself down onto his cock. He was shaking like a leaf. He remembered the fierce heat of her body, powerful and porcelain. He'd lasted five minutes. He wanted it to be good for her too, and he'd eased his thumb over the hood of her clit, shiny and smooth._

_"I won't," she'd said matter-of-factly._

_He brushed the tiny organ delicately, stroking her bottom with the other hand. "Because you don't wish to?"_

_She looked at him, face flushed and soft. "Because I don't think I will. I would be open to it, though, with you. You're kind."_

_"Okay." And he spent the next hour learning her body. Tracing, touching, asking her gentle questions. It was precise and calm and one of the most erotic experiences of Jean's life. It had ended with her lying facedown across his lap, thighs parted as his long fingers stroked her soaking pussy, caressing her swollen clit hard enough to feel her pubic bone._

_"That's very good," she'd panted, "yes, that's good…" she'd begun to squirm and tense, and he gripped her bottom firmly with his other hand. Her legs had buckled then, and she'd gasped harshly. He stroked her in slow, wet circles, helping her come._

What he said to Armin was: "She unlocked something inside of me. We had just the right thing to give to one another. I've never been able to label it."

Armin appreciated the way that Jean had balanced the truth with respecting Mikasa's privacy. He smiled a little.

Jean shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. He went on to tell Armin about the connection he and Mikki had experienced, and about their wish to have a child, at first unspoken, and then fervent.

"I am guessing," Armin said softly, "that that wasn't Marco's idea of 'keeping things up in the air."

Jean's smile faded. He looked reflective, and sad. Tears filled his eyes.

"No. And then I made things a hundred times worse. I took a couple of weeks off and went up north to see Marco. Things were different. He was different. He'd experienced stuff in South America, and he had this new energy…he was committed to creating an importing business, and he wanted to go back to Chile. We sat up all night, talking. And it was a lot like the old days. And I realized how much I'd missed him…and I sort of thought that maybe relationships felt like this for everybody…you know, _sort of_ right… _mostly_ right…."

Jean stood up, walked into the kitchen and returned with the wine bottle.

"Marco asked me to go back with him. He talked about Chilean music, about classical guitar and other genres. He said I'd really dig it. I thought about how going there could be good, creatively. Because - here's the other thing - I guess I felt like my musical voice was getting lost in Chris's talent, you know?…So I told Marco, yes. Yes I would. And he gave me a ring. It was his grandfather's."

"You…so…y-you were _engaged_?"

"Well…no one actually said, 'will you marry me'. It - it was more like a promise ring. At least, I thought…"

_"Jean!"_

Jean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head cupped in his hands. "And I guess I might have gone. I might live in Chile right now. I might be… _Juan_. And then, Mikki told me that she was pregnant.

There was this awful, ugly, nasty fight between us three, in Trinity Park. Marco had thought that Mikasa was just like my book nerd buddy. And then he basically finds out, _from her,_ that his gay lover is actually in some bi relationship and going to be a dad with someone else. Marco was floored. _Floored._ And Mikasa was…you know how she is…she was calm, and logical, and I guess he read that as being smug and condescending, so he lost his shit on Mikasa. He called her some pretty horrible things.

"What did you do?" Armin was sitting at the end of the couch, cross-legged and watching Jean with large, serious eyes.

"Well," Jean sighed, "I had to tell him to back off. He really laced into her. He saw my defending her as me 'choosing' her."

"And were you?"

"I want to say to you that I was choosing my kid. That was part of it. But the real truth was that Marco and me just didn't fit together, that way. It…." Jean trailed off. "I fucked up the best friendship I ever had in my life. I wrecked it, and then at the end I didn't even have the words, or the common sense, or whatever I needed, to even _try_ and fix it. I was just like…. _oh look, a train wreck…._ "

"When my daughter was born," Jean was crying, hot, steady tears as he finally released his story to Armin, "I thought my heart would fucking burst. She is the best thing…I've ever done," he sniffed.

"Mikki and I tried living in the same place for a bit, when she was little, but it just wasn't…it never _was_ that, you know? We needed our own spaces, and we decided to co-parent. 

What I didn't expect was that Mikki and I would develop such an enduring friendship," Jean blew his nose into a Kleenex. 

"Marco left for Chile the following week. And I've never found a way to live with what happened. I just concentrated on Sash, and on music. Chris has been amazing. He's helped me a lot.

And then…" he looked up at Armin, curled small and watchful. "and then along came this...this crazy, goofy, _beautiful_ burst of energy. You are the most incredible, loving, person I've ever met….you're," he plucked another Kleenex, "you're smart, and unselfish, and nerdy, and family-oriented…

I just wanted," he looked at Armin beseechingly, "I just wanted you to know the best part of me. Because…b-because I am really, really trying to be even half the person you deserve, Arm, I…"

Jean wept. He swiped at his eyes haphazardly with his fingers and Armin crawled into his lap, softly kissing his cheeks, and his eyes, and his lips. 

"Armin….Armin…." Jean whispered.

"Shhhh,"

"I'm so, so sorry I didn't tell you…"

"Stop. Stop it. I love you."

 


	17. Kleenex Arlert

"Armin!"

"What?"

"Arm, have you seen my Kansas hoodie?

"No!"

Armin carefully stroked shimmer polish onto his baby toe. He was sitting on the floor of Jean's bedroom in a patch of sunlight, his toenails sparkling beautifully. And he was drowning in Jean's oversize Kansas hoodie. Jean appeared in the doorway, grinning, his hazel eyes narrowing.

"Little liar."

Armin had the hood up. He turned and peeked out cautiously at Jean. "Oh," he said softly, "you mean _this_ Kansas hoodie?"

Jean looked at him wolfishly. Stepped into the room.

"N-no, my toes are wet!" Armin gasped. Jean grabbed Armin by each ankle, carefully holding his toes out of the way, and plunged his head underneath the Kansas hoodie, nipping at the taut flesh of Armin's thighs and bottom, tongue following teeth, rasping at the flushed skin.

__________

Mikasa had given him money. He'd tried to refuse, but she'd looked at him fixedly, her dark eyes adamant. He'd sighed and accepted it. And now, he was stitching two more play dresses for Sasha on his sewing machine. 

Armin sat at his worktable, his loft dark except for the bright cone of light cast by his table lamp. His glasses were perched on his nose, his hair corralled off his face with an orange rag bandanna.

Sasha had chosen a fabric printed with teapots. It had been intended, no doubt, for the creation of kitchen curtains, or oven mitts, but it reminded Armin of Alice in Wonderland. The second little dress was navy, but on a whim Armin had lined it with a cotton printed with tiny sheep. They were all white, except every now and then, there was a black one. He wanted to make this second dress reversible, which was tricky. He frowned. Took the tape measure out of his mouth and stretched enormously. Got up to make a cup of tea.

While the kettle was boiling, he woke up his laptop. He pondered skyping Mikki, but he hated to bother her when he didn't have Sasha. He realized that he'd come to enjoy their connection. Mikasa was very dry, and her humour was lost on most people. Alternatively, she was extremely detailed in her speech; Jean and even Sasha teased her about this - _okaaaay Mama, I get it already!_ \- but Armin enjoyed listening to her. Mikasa had no inclination for small talk; she and Armin discussed shared interests, including but not limited to Sasha. One evening, they'd spent an hour discussing prehistoric cave art.

Jean was at work. Armin pulled out his phone.

 _[hi bby, how's ur night going?]_ He thumbed.

He turned back to the computer and began a search.

_[my hoodie still smells like u. it's making me hard]_

Armin smiled. _[lol too bad. what r u doing?]_

_[deciddng how 2 punish u for stealing it]_

_[sorry  not sorry]_

_[got a fare. ttyl xxxxxxxx]_

 The kettle shrieked.

"Okay," Armin said to it. He made himself a blueberry tea and returned to the kitchen table. He logged onto Facebook. Thumbed through a few posts. There was a friend request from Chris Guthrie. He smiled and accepted it. He went to visit Chris's page. Which was mayhem. Armin loved it. Doodles, scribblings, lyrics, pictures. Pictures of Kojak. Pictures onstage. There was Jean. And Lydia, their singer.

Chris had a ton of Facebook friends, which made sense, because of Cherry Kirsch. Chris might seem permanently stoned, but he wasn't. Armin had come to know that he was smart, personable and knew the business of music. 

Included in Chris's friend list was Marco Bodt. 

Oh. Of course. Armin took his hand off the keyboard. He sipped his tea. After a moment, he clicked on Marco's icon. Some of Marco's information was public. As in the snaps from Jean's shoebox, he was tall. And muscular. And smiling in nearly every photo. Do I smile a lot? Armin wondered. He smiled into the side of his silver toaster, it's surface warping his reflection like a demented elf.

_I should go sew._

Armin thumbed through Marco's page. Marco hiked. He rock climbed. _Rock climbed???_ He'd been to Pride, in San Francisco. He had strong forearms, and very big hands and…

_I should go sew._

Armin folded his arms across his middle. He was having difficulty getting his mind around this. The closest person to Jean in the entire world was big, athletic, very obviously extroverted - and worldly. Were those qualities that Jean valued in a lover? He felt, momentarily, like Cinderella. And not in a good way.

On Marco's page was a link to something called _Bodt Custom Mosaic_.

Oh, great. And self-employed, too. Marco seemed to have a tiling business, and imported artisan tiles from South America. On the site was a video. Curiously, Armin moved his finger on the trackpad. The video was a demo. Marco was explaining how to create a decorative tile fireplace surround. He was tanned, and freckled. His voice was deep, and he had exactly the same engaging, casual speech pattern that Chris and Jean had. Despite himself, Armin was fascinated. So this was the third Musketeer.

His phone buzzed. Armin jumped out of his skin. "Shit, shit!"

It was the chess gaming site. Jean had started a game with him. 

_[it's ur move, bby.]_

__________

"Moore, report."

_[All clear]_

"Faltskög, report."

_[All clear, Chief]_

"Zacharius, report."

Nothing. 

Levi Ackerman and Armin Arlert stood near Chief Smith, on the soaked sidewalk in front of an abandoned, burning row house in Cabbagetown.

"Zacharius, report! Mike?" Smith repeated into his handheld com.

 _[Clear]_ Came the familiar rumble.

Armin exhaled in relief.

"Pull back, everyone out, let's go!" Smith ordered. The big pumper truck was moving into position.

Moore emerged first, then Ymir Faltskög. Lieutenant Zacharius was last, moving a little slowly, clutching a white rag against his chest.

Levi whistled sharply, motioning Zacharius over to the ambo. 

"Why…" Armin was squinting at the big lieutenant, "why's he got a kleenex?" Then: "Oh God, Levi, it's not a kleenex! It's a _kitten!_ "

It was sooty, filthy and tiny. But breathing. Armin accepted the little animal into a blanket, attempting to give it some oxygen. It stirred. Mike pulled off his helmet and face shield. He squatted down theatrically, so Levi could have a look at him.

"Asshole," said Levi.

"Levi, a kitten!" breathed Armin.

__________

Armin named her 'Kleenex'. She was brought back to the fire station and put into a cardboard box in the kitchen. She had no whiskers left and the fur was singed off her ears and tail. Armin phoned Chris Guthrie. No answer. He called Les Hastings.

"H-hi, Les? It's Armin. Armin Arlert."

A rich chuckle on the other end of the phone. "Damn, boy, I only know _one_ Armin. How're you doin'?"

"Good, good. Listen, I need a vet. Do you use a vet for Kojak?"

"Uh oh."

"No," Armin chuckled, "Not 'uh oh'…"

"Oh hell, yeah. What're you up to?"

Kleenex spent the night in the fire station bunk room, beside Armin's cot. The vet had given Armin a milk supplement to feed the kitten, and ointment for her ears and tail.

_What name? The vet's receptionist had asked him._

_It's Arlert. Armin had spelled it._

_And the kitten's name?_

_Sorry? Oh, uh…Kleenex._

_The vet's receptionist had handed him a little tube of cream with a typed prescription label stuck to it._

_The label said: Kleenex Arlert. 3 x Daily._

Levi had shaken his head. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Nothing," a little petulantly.

"Don't expect me to look after it."

The large blue eyes widened appealingly. "But you will, though."

Levi glared.

"Thanks Levi," Armin said sweetly.

__________

Armin had worked a busy double shift. He and Jean had decided on a quiet night in - dinner at the loft, and a movie. Jean had let himself in mid-afternoon and proceeded to put together a tapas tray. Armin's loft fascinated him. Colourful, textural, and yet everything neatly in it's place.

Armin had made no secret of the fact that he didn't cook. Most of his meals were eaten at the fire station. Thus, the contents of the colourful kitchen were arranged by size, shape and colour, rather than by function. Jean opened a cupboard, finding therein an assortment of casserole dishes, plates, utensils and one platter, the common denominator being that everything was cherry red. He chuckled, shaking his head. _Armin…there is no one even remotely like you in this entire world._ Jean removed the red platter and found, in the blue cupboard, some blown glass bowls. 

Armin pushed open the loft's sliding door, dropping his duffel bag onto the floor with a thump. He sighed, a long, soft sound like a discarded bagpipe. He bent down, unlacing his black boots and toeing them off onto the mat. 

"Hey," he called. 

"Hi baby," Jean was around the corner, in the kitchen. The loft was warm, and it smelled lovely. Tears pricked Armin's eyes.

"I'm going to get cleaned up," he called, padding into his bedroom. There was a separate hamper for work clothes. He often showered at work, but sometimes came home directly from Mt. Sinai. Into this bin went his uniform, smelling of soot, sweat and antiseptic. He stood in front of the mirror, studying his reflection. He had blisters on one shoulder, courtesy of a burst of cinders. His face was smudged, soot collected at his fair hairline. His large eyes looked serious, and sad. He wasn't tall or tanned or smiling.

"I look just like Kleenex," he sighed. He got into the shower and scrubbed, visualizing the stress and pain of shift flowing down the drain, with the soapy, hot water. 

He appeared some time later in the kitchen. On the counter, in it's accustomed place, was a whiskey rocks. Armin smiled and his throat tightened. Jean's iPod was stuck onto Armin's iPod deck and was playing Miles Davis. 

Armin hopped up onto the counter, leaned against the cupboards and watched Jean. His lover wore black jeans and a distressed beige t-shirt with a Zildjian Cymbals logo on it. The tee was faded, frayed, and clung to Jean's long, lean back. Arranged in front of Jean was a fleet of small bowls, blue and red and orange, and a number of saucers, each bearing colourful finger foods.

Armin looked on curiously as Jean rolled a paper thin strip of prosciutto around a slice of canteloupe. 

Sensing that Armin was feeling somewhat restored, Jean ventured quietly, "Would you like to taste something?"

The blue eyes surveyed the offerings curiously. He nodded.

__________

They ate in the middle of the loft's open expanse, on the floor in front of the TV, hauling cushions off of the bucket chairs and the couch onto the rug. 

"I heard," Jean said between bites of olive tapenade, "that you called Les yesterday."

Armin looked up, fingers in his mouth. "Uh huh. Remember Mike, the lieutenant at the house? The big guy?"

Jean nodded.

"Well, he and I have a new little _project_ …" and Armin launched into the tale of Kleenex's rescue.

Jean began looking around the loft.

"Oh she's not _here,_ " Armin laughed. "She's at the station. But she'll be coming home with me sometimes."

"Sasha will….."

"Freak," Armin finished delightedly. "I know!"

Jean had the last croustade.

"Hey!"

"Did you want it?" his hazel eyes sparkled softly.

"Well, they are nice…"

"Come here, then."

Armin crawled over to Jean, snuggling into his lap and accepting the little snack. Jean's lips found Armin's temple, his ear, his neck.

"Fuck," he murmured, "You're all I could think about today. I'm sorry…I don't mean to swamp you, Arm…"

"I know. Now that I'm with someone - with you -  there's just a lot of…well, _stuff_ you think about, and stuff you feel. It's lovely, and it's awful."

"I'm lovely," Jean agreed, "and you are awful."

Armin pulled back and looked up at him, blue eyes dancing. Jean kissed his forehead, his cheek, his lips, softly.

"You are. You're so awful. You're a brat," he kissed Armin again, "and a pain..." he coaxed the fine lips apart, his long hand coming up to cup Armin's face. 

"Did you get me a present?" Jean purred.

"N-no…"

"See? Awful. Because I got you a present." he took the little white bag off of the coffee table and put it in Armin's lap.

"Ooh," a dimpled smile, "this looks like a Sarah's bag. Silver ribbon handles."

Jean blushed red, to his ears. 

Armin opened the bag, slowly pulling out a sheer, black lace teddy. "Oh, my…"

"It's okay….if - if you don't like it…I mean, I wasn't sure…I could always get you some model glue or sewing shears…."

"It's really cute," Armin ran his hand over the fabric, "and very saucy. I love it!"

__________

They'd decided to watch their movie in bed. Armin's bedroom was as bohemian as the rest of his loft, bedecked with a colourful assortment of pillows and a duvet cover he'd made from offcuts of Japanese silk, in shades of blue and taupe. A constellation of haphazard tin stars ran up the wall behind it. 

Jean scrolled through Netflix on his laptop.

"I think," Armin said slowly, "that I'll go change."

The teddy was sheer, plunging to the navel in front and had miniature silk buttons that travelled from the navel, underneath the crotch, and up the seam of the bottom, terminating in a tiny silk bow at the small of the back. Armin craned around to see the effect in the bathroom mirror. He put on a short black robe he had, and as a last minute inspiration, tied his hair up using the black velvet ribbon Levi had given him.

Jean sat up against the head of the bed, long legs crossed at the ankles. He'd abandoned his jeans and socks, wearing only boxer briefs and his tee.

"Oh…" he looked up, swallowing. "oh, Arm…"

__________

They dimmed the lights to watch their movie. Jean sat, back against the headboard, nursing a beer. Armin lay on his belly, feet up at the headboard, head at the end of the bed, propped up on his elbows. He had a small dish of strawberry ice-cream and was engrossed in the movie, a Second World War film.

Jean's attention wandered, his eyes playing over the graceful lines of Armin's body, etched in blue light from the TV screen. Armin dipped his spoon into the ice-cream, raised it to his lips, slid the spoon into his mouth.

Jean ran a hand up Armin's leg, bringing his calf close, kissing it softly. His hand massaged it gently, absently. He kissed the glittery toenails. Armin's attention remained fixed on the movie. A tank exploded.

"Arm," Jean breathed softly, "may I see?"

Without looking back, Armin raised the hem of his black robe slowly, revealing the sheer bottom and lower back of the teddy, it's sweet row of tiny buttons dividing the little mounds of his ass and disappearing between his legs.

Another small spoonful of ice-cream. Armin sucked it off of the spoon, in layers. The spoon disappeared into his mouth three times before the ice-cream was gone.

Jean caressed Armin's thigh, fingers running up his lover's hamstring, massaging. Armin made a small, appreciative sound, but still didn't turn around. His hair was gathered into a loose, messy tail with the velvet ribbon. The robe had slipped off of one shoulder to reveal a smattering of little red blisters, from a fire. Jean stroked the coltish legs lovingly. Armin was courageous and patient...and sensitive. So sensitive.

Jean reached out a fingertip, grazing the fascinating row of buttons that ran down Armin's backside. He honestly hadn't noticed the buttons in the store. They were silk, no bigger than a split pea and adorable. His fingertip traced the buttons down between the rounded cheeks, to where the sheer fabric cupped Armin's balls.

Carefully, Armin took another spoonful of ice cream.

Jean traced the edge of the teddy along one smooth buttock, his finger hooking the edge of the lace. He removed his finger, and the elastic snapped back softly. His cock ached.

"Hey," Armin's voice was soft and throaty, "I'm having dessert."

"So am I…" Jean whispered.

His fingers returned to the row of buttons which ran down Armin's bottom and between his legs, and he very gently unbuttoned one. Then three. He slid a finger into the opening he'd made, brushing the hot, silky skin between his boy's cheeks. He tickled the seam lazily, squirming on the bed a little as his erection pushed insistently against the cotton boxer briefs.

Armin put down his dessert dish, arms shrugging out of the robe entirely, to reveal his pale back and shoulders. Then, he picked the dish back up again, scraping up the last few spoonfuls of ice cream.

Jean caressed one exquisite little cheek, then the other, savouring the delicacy of lace over taut muscle. Armin arched his back, nudging his bottom up into Jean's hand, and parted his thighs a little. Jean groaned. His other hand had dipped beneath the waistband of his underwear, fingertips flicking against the head of his cock.

Trembling, he popped open more buttons, the teddy's crotch parting and freeing Armin's balls. Jean stroked them very softly, eliciting a series of sighs.

"Does it feel good?" he whispered, his hand sliding up again, over the crest of Armin's ass, across the small of his back.

"Yeah," Armin's voice quavered. He arched his hips off the bed and Jean slid his hand underneath him, stroking Armin's erection through the lace. "Pretty baby," he murmured, opening the rest of the buttons along the seam. 

"Come here," Jean shimmied down the bed until he was flat on his back, lifted Armin's hips and placed him overtop of his chest, with Armin's knees on either side of his shoulders.

On the screen, a squadron of fighter planes thrummed over the Atlantic.

"Oh," Armin gasped, finding himself straddling Jean's face as Jean's hands gripped his lace-covered bottom, fingers pulling the unbuttoned seam apart gently. 

"Jean, I.. _aaah!"_ A hot, pointed tongue snuck through the unbuttoned seam of his new teddy, licking firm circles over the soft pad of flesh just behind his balls. Armin moaned and squirmed, which only made the firm hands grip his bottom tighter. The tongue flicked against his pucker and he squeaked. 

"Jean!"

He felt a soft puff of breath against his thigh. "Okay, baby doll?"

Armin panted, the heat that burned his face spreading to his neck and chest. He felt deliciously vulnerable and he shivered, feeling the pounding of Jean's chest against his cock. He badly needed Jean's tongue there again.

"Okay," he gasped and was rewarded as Jean licked him again, firmly, slipping his tongue past the tight ring of muscle and wiggling it.

 Armin cried out helplessly, pleasure pebbling his soft skin with gooseflesh as Jean tongue-fucked him without mercy.

Armin squirmed, fingers latching onto the cotton boxer briefs and shoving them down Jean's thighs. Jean's cock sprang free, slapping against Armin's chin until Armin's quick hand stilled it. It glistened in the blue light, leaking damply.

"Oh, God!" Jean jolted as he felt Armin's mouth, cool from the ice-cream and then lava-hot, sink down onto his cock. Armin whimpered around Jean's shaft, sucking eagerly. His other hand dug into the thatch of brown curls that crested Jean's pubic bone, tugging gently. Jean sobbed with pleasure.

"Here," he gasped. "Just…" He rolled gently until they were both laying on their sides, end-to-end. He hooked Armin's leg over his shoulder and craned his neck, expertly pulling Armin's sweet, curved erection into his mouth. 

Armin gasped at the sheer, delicious shock of suckling his lover while his own cock was down Jean's throat. His fist closed around Jean's shaft, stroking firmly as his tongue rasped insistently at the swollen head.

As the Battle of Britain raged onscreen, Armin and Jean lay joined together, bodies rocking rhythmically, stroking and sucking until they were both moaning helplessly.

Jean stiffened, hips stuttering as he thrust against the velvety pink mouth. The ache was unbearable. He slapped Armin's wriggling ass, knowing that the possessive sting could push Armin over the edge and Armin broke, bucking and sobbing as a slow, deep orgasm wracked his body. Jean felt Armin's cock twitch against his tongue, spilling into his throat. He swallowed, gasped for air and then his balls tightened, the ache bursting and he shouted hoarsely as he came, pushing into Armin's wet mouth.

Afterward they lay, tangled and blissful, nuzzling and licking at tender, pink skin as the aftershocks of pleasure ebbed away.

Armin moved finally, inverting himself and crawling into the warmth of Jean's arms. 

"I loved my present," he whispered and then hinted, "my birthday's November third."

"I think you will kill me well before November third," murmured Jean happily.

 


	18. I Thought That We Should Meet

Armin entered the fire station's common room to a round of applause. He froze on the spot, cheeks flaming.

_It's not like they can tell…can they?_

Most of the rescue squad were scattered around the long dining table, a few more lounged on the couches. Levi Ackerman stood at the island which separated the kitchen from the dining area, sipping tea.

He handed Armin an envelope. Armin frowned, turning it over carefully. It was from OTTU, the Provincial Trauma Training Unit.

"What…oh!" Armin dropped his bag and pulled the letter out of the envelope.

"Congratulations," Levi nodded. "Results were posted online. Only three level one EMT's in the GTA passed Trauma II certification. You were one of them."

Armin beamed. 

__________

Jean's phone rang while he was driving south on University Avenue, during morning rush hour. He glanced at the display and frowned. After dropping off his fare, he put the cab in park and called Chris Guthrie. No answer. 

"Fuck," he growled. He called the landline at Les and Chris' house.

[Hello?] Chris answered.

"Chappy just called me."

[Unh.] Chris made a noise on the other end of the phone. [What time is it, dude?]

"I'm driving! Why's Chappy calling _me?_ You handle the band bookings. I'm _driving!"_

[Yeah, you just said. Sorry man, I still can't find my phone.]

Jean snorted. 

[Kirschy. Is today Wednesday?]

__________

"Don't," Ymir Faltskög glared at Armin warningly.

The Icelandic firefighter was stretched out on the couch in the fire station common room, all six feet of her; tanned, muscled and freckled. Curled up on her chest was a small, white ball of fuzz.

Armin inched forward, stethoscope in his ears.

The dark eyes regarded him menacingly. "Do not. _Do not_ wake this kitten up."

"I _know,"_ Armin mouthed. He leaned over Ymir, brow furrowed, "only I think she's squeaking when she inhales. I can't really hear it when she's awake because she purrs most of the time."

Armin leaned in a little closer, touching the stethoscope to the kitten's chest. His hair was cornsilk blond. His brows and lashes were darker, the colour of syrup.

The corners of Ymir's mouth curled up in a slow, bemused smile. Armin tilted his head to one side, listening.

Ymir picked up the end of the stethoscope and asked into it rather loudly, "So, how's your sister these days?"

"Aaah!" Armin jolted, yanking the scope out of his ears. Ymir laughed; a rich sound, like warm wood.

__________ 

Armin sat on the ambo tailgate, took out his phone and called Jean. Normally he texted if Jean was working, but he was excited to tell Jean his news.

Jean picked up. [Hey, Arm.] Jean sounded uptight, frazzled.

"Hey," Armin said softly. "Sorry. Sorry…is this a bad time?"

[Kinda. What's up?]

Armin decided that the news of his certification could wait until after shift. "Well nothing, I just…could I crash at your place tonight?"

A pause. [I guess, sure…but I'm meeting Marco, remember? _Fuck! Red light means stop, douche!"]_

Armin heard Jean lean on the horn. "But I could still crash?"

[Of course. Of course, honey. Whatev.]

Armin frowned, piqued. "I mean…I'd like to _see_ you…after, you know. After you see Marco."

[Yeah.] Jean sounded completely checked-out.

"What time will you be home?" As soon as he said it, Armin thumped his head against the metal doorframe behind him. _Ugh…needy…stupid…_

[I don't know, right now.] Irritated. [Do you need to know that right _now_?]

"Nope."

[Okay. So….]

"Okay, so nothing else. So…bye." The phone went dead.

Armin looked up to meet Levi's penetrating, grey gaze. "This," said Levi drily, "is a magic ambulance. It stocks itself."

"Sorry, Levi." Armin sighed.

Levi began handing him boxes of neatly labelled surettes, which he placed into orderly rows in the colour-coded drawers.

"Let's stock quickly," Levi suggested. "Then we'll have time to drill on the errors you made on the test." He put a hand on Armin's knee. "You did very well. But it's important to review, constantly. This is a profession where 'very well' is never good enough. The finish line keeps moving."

Armin nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir."

Armin grabbed a clipboard and checked off items, counting carefully.

"Let's have dinner," Levi offered. "to celebrate."

"Oh…" Armin looked up. "Yeah, yeah. Let's do that. I'll catch up with you, though. I, uh, I have to make a stop first."

__________

Marco Bodt hoped that the rain would stop by Friday. His grandpa Leo deserved a bright, clear fall day for his funeral. Thin, cold rain pelted against Brighton's front windows, the sound of it punctuated by the periodic, crisp snap of a break from the billiard tables. Randy, the bartender, placed a rye and ginger in front of Marco, squeezing his forearm. 

"Good to see y'again, Marco."

The rye was doing nothing to loosen the knot of dread in his belly. He exhaled. He'd arrived to meet Jean an hour early. It was only four-thirty, and Brighton was nearly empty, save for a few regulars.

The door opened. Marco's dark head jerked up. A couple entered the bar, shaking out an umbrella and taking a seat in one of the booths. Marco sipped his drink, appearing to pay careful attention to the hockey game on the TV screen above the bar. 

The door opened again. This time, Marco turned his head a little more slowly. A young guy, not very tall, had entered the bar, shaking the rain off of his black windbreaker. The windbreaker had EMT written across the chest, and fluorescent piping that luridly caught the light from the bar. He pulled off his hood, revealing a spill of pale hair and a bright, piquant face. He slid onto a stool near the door, on one of the short sides of the three-sided bar, some distance from where Marco sat.

"Hiya, Wedge," the young man greeted the permanent occupant of the neighbouring stool. His voice was soft, but it carried.

"Hiya, Ugly," Wedge returned pleasantly, not looking up from his racing form. 

Marco watched with interest as Randy the bartender pulled down a bottle of Jameson's and poured a whiskey rocks. He placed the tumblr in front of the young man who was seemingly acquainted with Wedge, a longtime Brighton fixture. 

The young man swivelled on his stool, placing his elbows comfortably on the bar, evidently very much at home. 

__________ 

_It isn't too late,_ Armin rationalized. _I could just drink up and be on my way and that's that. No need to make a complete ass of myself._

His eyes flicked to the tall, dark man sitting down the bar. The man had a kind, open face, broad shoulders and a beautifully-cut grey wool coat. He turned then, facing Armin more fully, and Armin saw that he wore a patch over his right eye. Armin frowned a little. Jean had never said anything about…

"Marco," Wedge called down the bar suddenly. Armin's heart hammered. Well, that settles that…the tall man in the wool coat was definitely Marco. Armin stared fixedly into his drink, frozen to his stool in fear.

"Marco," Wedge called again, clapping a neighbourly hand onto Armin's shoulder, "This here's Ugly."

_Oh no. Oh, good fucking lord..._

Marco tilted his head curiously, and smiled at the lovely blond, raising his glass.

_Oh shit…shit…_

Armin hopped off his stool and walked down the bar to where Marco sat. Marco turned in his seat, smiling at him.

"Hi," Armin held out his hand politely, "I'm not really Ugly."

Marco was grinning broadly. He wore an olive green v-neck sweater with a white t-shirt underneath it. Around his neck was a leather necklace, adorned with a small silver charm. An Aztec mask, that was also grinning alarmingly at Armin.

Marco grasped the proffered hand and leaned forward, as if to inspect Armin with his visible eye, which was warm and brown. "No," he teased, "you aren't really all that ugly." 

The blond EMT, who actually had fine features and delicious, heady blue eyes, flushed. "I mean…it's… _my name's_ not Ugly. I'm actually Armin."

"Armin…?" Marco was frowning, politely trying to place name.

Armin took a breath and smiled back. "Yes, Armin. I'm Jean's boyfriend."

There. It was said. "And…well, I can't stay, I've only stopped in for a quick one, but I thought…well, I thought we should meet. That you should meet me." 

__________

Marco had spent the past half-hour trying not to stare. Armin fascinated him. He wore reading glasses, and these were alternately perched on the end of his nose or shoved up into his hair. He talked with his hands, and jumped between two or three strings of thought at one time. He possessed a natural warmth, an adorable, dorky demeanour and an almost demure shyness. 

"I'm sorry," Armin was saying.

Marco realized he'd been lost in thought.

"I'm sorry," Armin repeated, "about your Grandpa. Jean told me."

Marco nodded. "Thanks." He noticed Armin staring at his eye-patch and trying not to.

"Broken orbital bone?" the young EMT asked, then remembered himself, "Sorry…sorry, that was so rude."

"Not at all. There was an accident at work," Marco explained. "A kiln exploded. I got shards all around my eye…stitches and stuff…but fortunately I won't lose my vision. It's nearly healed. I just have to keep it covered for another week or so."

Armin Arlert was leaning forward on his elbows, scrutinizing Marco. "Can…can I see?"

__________

Marco had placed his tablet onto the bar. He flicked through images with a finger. Armin leaned over to see. Marco smelled exotic. Like sandalwood and coffee.

"These are the kilns," Marco was explaining. "We fire the tiles in here. And this is the glazing room…"

"How many people work there?"

"Twelve at present. Plus Thomas and me." Marco swiped across the screen. An image came up of a tall, rangy blond man, with blond sideburns, wearing goggles and lifting something out of an oven with a paddle.

"Goggles," remarked Armin.

Marco laughed. "Yeah, goggles!! Oops."

Another image, this time of Marco and Thomas, their cheeks covered in streaks of stain, arms around one another. "This was just after our first order," Marco said fondly. He looked up at Armin. "Thomas Wagner. See the sign? It's in Spanish but it says "Bodt and Wagner Ceramic Design."

Armin studied the picture. Thomas looked like an explorer. His skin was coffee-tan, his hair nearly white blond and he wore khakis. 

Armin pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. Marco had heard about Armin of course, from Chris. Chris's description, _sweet little dude, man_ , hadn't exactly given Marco much of a picture to go by.

 _I thought that we should meet…that you should meet me_. Marco had apprehended the meaning behind the words, and behind the serious, level stare that had accompanied them. This boy loved Jean. And he wanted Marco to know it.

"Thomas," said Marco quietly, "is my partner. My lover. We met two years ago, in Chile of course. He's German, born in Dresden. Before I met him, I had already fallen in love with his designs. He doesn't leverage social media very much, and it was hard to get an appointment with him. I finally tracked him down."

"And?"

Marco laughed, "Well, everyone loves Canadians, don't they?"

__________

Armin had forgotten himself. "Shit! What time is it?" He was supposed to be at Levi's in ten minutes. "Yup, I do have to go now…" he stood up, trying to capture his arms inside of his windbreaker. Marco rose, took the jacket and held it open for him.

"T-thank you," Armin said softly. Marco placed the jacket onto his shoulders, then swept his hands beneath Armin's hair, lifting it out of the collar.

Armin turned and looked up. His deep eyes entreated Marco, open and honest. "It sounds," he said gently, "like the future looks very promising. For everybody." He stood on his toes, softly kissing the freckled cheek.

"See you."

 


	19. The One Ring

Jean had no idea why he'd bothered to rehearse any type of greeting. And he had; in his own mind he'd tried sounding cautious, then he'd tried sounding warm, then he'd tried sounding articulate. In the end, he'd stood in front of the tall, freckled, well-dressed man at the bar, a man who looked like Marco but didn't, and said: "Hey."

"Hey," Older Marco was smiling; a bittersweet smile that held traces of hope, like tinges of copper. It wasn't the outstretched hand but rather the patch over Older Marco's right eye that caused Jean to take an involuntary step forward, grasp the proffered hand, and allow himself to be pulled into Marco's brief, warm embrace.

His next sentence, like the first, rather lacked some of the depth he'd envisioned earlier. He tilted his head a little, studying the eye-patch.

"Dude?"

"It's cool," Marco acknowledged. "I can still see. Just some stitches and stuff. A kiln exploded at work."

"Seriously? _Dude._ Goggles." Jean grinned tentatively. 

Marco gestured around the jazz bar. "So, you still…?"

"Yeah, oh, yeah. Tuesdays and Saturdays. And we have a recording space down near Cherry Beach. It's good. It's…"

Marco's mouth was still upturned at the corners; sad, sweet. 

"Marco, man. I'm so sorry about Grandpa Leo." Jean slid onto the barstool beside Marco, unwinding a long, striped scarf from around his neck. He wore fingerless gloves and a beaten-up brown bomber jacket that Marco had never seen before.

"Thanks," Marco shook his head. "I still can't believe it. Grandpa Leo was, well, you know… _robusto!"_ he used one of Leo's favourite phrases.

"So, where's the family and stuff?"

"The wops are all at Frank and April's," Marco referred to his Italian cousins. "I was just there."

"So how was that?"

"Ah, you know. Laughing, crying, eating. Drinking. Eating. Crying some more. Playing craps."

"Your parents?"

"Mom's not so good. Like, this was her _dad_ , you know? He was…he was her whole world."

Jean thought of Sasha. His throat tightened.

"Well tell everyone…tell them I'm really sorry."

Randy the bartender looked at Jean, holding up a coffee cup and a bottle of Rickard's Red beer. "Rickards, cheers." said Jean.

__________

Marco and Jean sat in a booth at the back of the bar, in a roped-off area near the sound board. 

"It's quieter here," Jean ventured. "I figured if you wanted to talk or whatever…"

He glanced up. Marco's forearms were folded on the table. He'd taken off his grey coat and set in on the bench beside him. He wore a green sweater, and a silver Aztec medallion around his neck. It swung forward when Marco leaned in, and Jean caught a new, warm scent, like patchouli, or sandalwood. "You look," he said to Marco, "like someone that lives abroad now. That lives far away."

Marco smiled. "Oh yeah? I guess that's fair. I spend a lot of time at the plant in Chile, and the rest of it in the mountains out west. B.C. is awesome. You should check it out some time."

"Maybe we will," Jean agreed. _We._ Marco watched as Jean realized what he'd said. Watched Jean's eyes soften as a small smile touched his lips. 

"Jean," he said quietly. "I'm not here to dick you around, or make you wonder why I've asked to see you. So…" he paused, "so, I just have some things to say, and if you don't want to hang after that, that's cool…just…please, hear me out."

Jean nodded, mute. His stomach had been churning for nearly two weeks, and he'd gotten himself, and Armin, and everyone else into knots over…over what? 

Marco began. "When the kiln exploded, it was…it was SO loud. Like, louder than the loudest racket Chris has ever made onstage. I went deaf for a bit. And my face was on fire, and I couldn't see out of either eye. I just figured, this is it. I'm blind now. Period. People were screaming. I even wondered if maybe I'd be one of those people that dies a few days afterward you know, from some shit like a blood clot. And you know what?"

Jean listened quietly. Pulled off his grey wool beanie and held it, scrunched on the table in front of him.

"It absolutely freaked me out that I would never be able to _see_ you again. Like, ever. I'd be blind and I'd never be able to see your face. I'm not sure how blind people do it, because I had things to say to you and if I couldn't see your eyes and stuff…I'd never know if you believed me, or forgave me."

Marco reached up, pulling the patch off slowly. It wasn't so bad. A network of curved, pink scars circled his orbital bone, like the petals of an angry rose. He blinked, a few tears seeping through his dark lashes. His cornea was red, but his eye was intact.

He squinted at Jean carefully. "You look fucked," he said.

"Can - can you see me at all with that eye?"

"Sorta. It'll get better."

Marco took a sip of his rye and ginger.  "So. So here it is, dude. I'm sorry for how things were left. I said things and did things I had no right to do. I knew your head wasn't exactly where mine was. I didn't listen to you, I didn't listen to my gut. All I knew was…you were _changing_. It felt like we were growing apart. Like I was losing you. Losing you in every way. Not just as a boyfriend, but the entire friendship. Everything." Marco took a breath.

"So I gave you a ring. I asked you to come with me to South America…."

"Marco," Jean reached out a hand, laying it on Marco's forearm.

"But," Marco stopped, looking to the side, his face tight in distress, "Dude…I asked you for the wrong reasons. Not…not because I'd reasoned it out properly in my head. No. It was to take you away. Away from someone else that, at the time, I felt was totally wrong for you. Not good enough for you.

So I'm sorry…." He raised a hand, dashing at his tears, "I'm sorry I lied, I'm sorry I pushed you. I loved you and I didn't know how to….how to let you grow, and choose for yourself…I know how to do that, now…"

The room swam. Jean blinked, trying to collect himself.

"No, man…" he squeezed Marco's arm. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

"I was the one who fucked it up. It's on me. And I'm sorry. I mishandled things so badly. But," a very deep breath. He looked up at Marco, with the calm solidity of a man with something to protect, "I've ended up where I belong. I'm…I'm a dad. And Mikki is a good mom. No, she's a great mom. And she's a great friend as well."

Shaking, Jean took his iphone out of his pocket. He flicked it on, swiped the screen and handed it to Marco.

"This," he said, his eyes bright with tears of joy and pride, "this is Sasha."

__________

"Levi."

Nothing.

 _"Levi!"_ Armin stood in the apartment hallway. 

After a moment, the door opened a crack. Levi kept the chain on the door. "You're late," he said flatly. "Forty-seven minutes late."

"I know," Large, liquid blue eyes entreated him. 

The door closed.

"Levi!" Armin heard the hiss of the chain being dislodged, and the door opened a crack again. A steel grey eye peered out. "What's in the bag?"

"Pulled chicken enchiladas," Armin purred. "Extra mole sauce, and," he pulled out a boxed DVD set, " _Band of Brothers_ marathon?"

A deft hand reached out, snatched the DVD set and pulled it inside for inspection.

Armin pressed on. "We can watch the medic episode twice," he offered. "Eugene in the fox holes in the middle of winter?"

Levi snorted. "Got maple squares?"

Armin stuck the bakery bag through the door, waving it like a white flag of surrender.

The door to the spotless little apartment opened. 

"Fine," said Levi, although he was very pleased.

_________

One picture of Armin caught Marco's attention in particular. Armin, in Jean's Kansas Jayhawks hoodie and bare legs, curled on Jean's brown couch, half inside a patch of sunlight. Staticy strands of pale hair blazed around his head, like the halo given to especially messy angels. 

Another one, of Sasha standing near the sewing table, wielding Armin's wooden yardstick. Armin was on one knee in front of her, head bowed gravely. "Sasha is the princess," Jean explained, "she's knighting Armin." He snickered, "then, they switch around and Armin is the princess and Sasha is the brave knight."

"Jean, I…" Marco stopped. Wedge shambled by their table, on his way to the men's room. "Kirschy," was his gravelly-voiced greeting. A few minutes later, he returned, reached into his billfold, peeled off two fifty-dollar bills and dropped them onto the table.

"You jes' missed Ugly," he told Jean. "Give this to him. I trust ya."

Jean looked up, befuddled. 

"His horse came in."

"Armin was here?"

"Two-dollar Exactor."

"Armin was here? _Today?"_  

"Picked 'em, one-two so he did."

"Armin was _here?"_

"I don't normally pay out except straight into a winner's hand, mind. I've got a witness."

"Sorry, _Armin was here?"_

Wedge flapped his hand in annoyance, having spent enough time trying to get through to Kirschy, and shambled back to his office at the bar.

"Armin," confirmed Marco with a self-depreciating smile, "was here."

Jean's phone buzzed. He looked down, hoping that all was okay with Sasha. The message was from Armin.

[don't killllll meeeeeee…xxxxxxxxx] it read.

__________

"So..so you met….you met Armin? _My_ Armin?" Jean looked up at Marco. 

Marco held out both hands, palms up. "He stopped in for one."

"And…?"

"Chris was right. He is sweet…but I get the feeling he's a strong person, too. And very sincere. And…and very protective."

Jean nodded slowly. Smiled. 

Texted back [brat. xxxxxxxxx]. He pocketed the two fifty dollar bills.

Chris had approached the table so silently that he took both Marco and Jean a little by surprise. He looked from one to the other.

"Dudes."

Jean and Marco laughed.

"So like, is it good?"

"It's good."

__________

The three of them stared at the ring. It sat on the table, thick and round and solid gold. 

Jean had brought it along, thinking - _no, knowing_ \- that he had to return it to Marco, and should have done so years ago.

"Thank you," said Marco softly. "Although, it's totally cool if you want to keep it…"

"I can't keep it, bro. It belongs to you. It was Leo's and it should stay in your family. Even moreso now."

"But Leo loved you too, Jean. You were like a grandson to him."

 _"My preciousssss"_ hissed Chris.

"Maybe you _should_ keep it," Marco offered. "Like, you know, a new beginning thing…"

"I don't know, Marco..."

_"What has it got in it's pocketssess…."_

"Guthrie, shut the fuck up."

Marco looked up suddenly, flashing Jean a lopsided grin. "I know," he said, reaching for his coat. "I know what we need to do. Drink up boys." he urged them.

_"Nasty hobbitsesss…."_

"Guthrie, shut the fuck up. Seriously."

__________

Marco hailed a cab. They rode uptown as the evening light faded. The cab dropped them off on Mount Pleasant Avenue, by Davisville Park. They walked through the park, stopping behind the painted green wooden hut by the baseball diamonds.

Chris pulled out a flask. He took a swallow, passing it to Marco. "It's medicinal. You know, for your eye."

Marco tilted the silver flask up and took a swallow, wincing. " _Jesus,_ Chris."

"It's brandy."

"It tastes like cough syrup!"

"Oh. Maybe it is cough syrup."

Jean burst out laughing.

They continued on through the park. Jean felt buoyant, weightless. And luckier than most people deserve to be. First, fate had brought him Armin. Now, the three of them were on the same page again. Ace, Bass and Face.

Del Monico Funeral Home had lanterns outside; wrought iron ones which reminded Jean of gaslit paintings on Christmas cards. 

On the porch of the funeral home, Marco turned to the two of them. "Ssssh," he instructed, although no one had made any noise. 

They opened the door, finding themselves in a tranquil, taupe-hued lobby. A few people milled quietly, in small groups. One of the funeral directors nodded to Marco.

"He knows me," whispered Marco. "from earlier today. We had visitation today. Tomorrow, too…"

They walked down a hallway, to a reception room with a white door. A brass easel was situated out front, holding a small sign which read, _Leo D'Agostini._

Jean stopped short, leaning against the wall. "Marco."

Marco and Chris stopped.

"I'm sorry, man…I'm just…I've never seen a passed-away person before."

Marco took Jean's hand. "It's okay," he squeezed. "It's totally okay. You don't have to come in."

"No, I'm coming in!" Jean insisted. 

Marco kept hold of his hand. The three of them entered the visitation room. It was cheerful, lit softly with table lamps and adorned with sprays of flowers from family and friends. The room held couches, low tables and was adorned with pictures of Grandpa Leo, his friends and family. At the end of the room, between two sprays of white lilies was Grandpa Leo's mahogany casket. The lid was propped open.

Jean shivered.

It was nearly closing time. 

"Here," said Marco. "We don't have to go up just yet. Let's just sit on the couch for a minute. There's a couple over there paying their respects. We'll wait for them to go, and then we'll do it."

The visitation room was silent, except for the soft tinkle of piped-in piano music.

"That's a terrible arrangement," muttered Jean.

"Yeah. Painful." Chris agreed.

The couple who had been at the other end of the room approached. Marco held out his hand, politely exchanging a few words with them as they left.

He turned to Jean and Chris. "I guess," Marco said softly, "that we're all finding our own way. We've managed to find love, each of us. Just like _Nonno_ Leo loved _Nonna_ Grace. And now they're together again."

The young men stood, crossed the room and approached the mahogany casket. Jean had hold of Marco's hand, which he squeezed tightly.

Grandpa Leo was so still. His hair was neatly combed, which didn't make sense to Jean; Grandpa Leo was always building garden walls and mopping his brow and driving the boat at the cottage.

His hands were folded across his breast. He wore a dark suit, and his blue Italian _futbol_ necktie. 

The three friends regarded him silently. Marco, with loving respect. Chris, pensive and sad.

Jean Kirschstein wept. "Goodbye, Leo," he whispered, "we'll try harder to make you proud."

Marco reached into his pocket, pulling out Grandpa Leo's ring. Taking a breath, he reached into the casket and slid it gently onto Grandpa Leo's ring finger, where it belonged.

"Rest well, _Nonno_."

__________

The sky was black. Then indigo. Then grey, by the time Detective Lesley Hastings heard a thump in the hallway. Kojak raised his grizzled head and looked at his master. Les shook his head. Kojak grunted.

Chris appeared in the kitchen, leaning in the doorway. Les didn't look up from where he sat at the kitchen table, which was strewn with photos, folders and notes.

"Sorry, Papi," Chris ventured. "Marco took us back to Frankie's for food and stuff…I guess I lost track of time. Sorry."

Les didn't look up, which stung Chris more than any rebuke would have.

"You're a grown-ass man," his lover said indifferently. All the same, he made no attempt to sweep the gruesome crime scene photos out of Chris's view. 

"I know," Chris said softly. " _I know._ I'm sorry. I…I know what you think when I don't call you."

Les looked up finally, not entirely placated.

"Hey," Chris said. "I'll put on some coffee. And maybe toast us some crumpets? Okay?"

"Two. With jam." No smile. Still, it was a start.

Chris Guthrie opened the breadbox, removing the package of crumpets. And stared in shocked amazement at his iphone, inside of the breadbox.

__________

He had spoken at the funeral. He'd gotten all the way through his speech. He'd called Thomas that night from his room and Thomas had sung to him, a strange little German carol about a lost rabbit. Then he'd cried. With sorrow, with relief, and with enlightenment.

The plane circled the harbour, making it's approach to Vancouver Airport. Far below, the logs from the lumber mills floated, jammed against the shoreline like matchsticks.

Marco Bodt removed the eye patch carefully, and placed it into his pocket. He blinked. His eyes adjusted, and he found that he could see…clearly and completely, for the first time in many years. He smiled, at peace.

__________

"Wake up," Jean nuzzles Armin's neck softly, breathing in the sweet, soft scent of home.

"Hmmn?"

"Wake up, baby doll."

"Uh - Jean? What?" Armin sits up, foggy and alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Arms around him. He curls instinctively against the heat, knowing all of the hollows of Jean's body. "Sssh. Nothing's wrong. But get up."

Jean stands, Armin in his arms. He holds his lover close. Armin uncurls slowly until his toes touch the floor.

"It's cold. What time is it?"

"Five-fifteen."

"Oh, _God_." Armin shoves the heel of his hand into his eye, grinding away sleep. "Everything okay with Marco?"

"I'll tell you every word. Promise. But right now, I just need you to get dressed."

__________

Jean drives his cab south. Then east along the Danforth. Further east along Kingston Road, to the bluffs. It's a perfect September morning for this.

Armin sits in the front seat with him. He's wrapped himself in Sasha's Sailor Moon blanket and his sweet face is still smushed and sleepy.

Jean pulls up to a drive-through, then puts a hot cup of coffee into Armin's hands. Once in the east end of the city, he pulls into a lakeside park, high on the bluffs.

It's as he expected; a low autumn mist has settled over Lake Ontario, and the morning is partially cloudy.

He pulls Armin close, stroking the pale hair softly. "Do you have a kiss for me?" he whispers.  

Armin's small nose nudges against his face, and he makes a sound.

"Come here," Jean covers Armin's lips with his own, kissing him slowly, whispering against his mouth. "Sweetheart…watch this…"

The sun pokes over the horizon then, and the lake catches fire. The mist drifts and swirls, shimmering hot orange and pink, like a spun confection.

"Oh…." Armin gasps.  "Oh, it's so gorgeous..."

The sun breaks across the lake, in brilliant shards. Far to the west, the glass office towers of the downtown core blaze yellow-orange.

A low, rumbling hum rises across the water as Toronto rouses herself, ready for another day. A day filled with rubber boots and dinosaurs, laundry and chicken soup. Sirens and school bells, glances and touches. 

It's a hectic life; sometimes stressful, sometimes mundane. But it's an amazing life, because Armin Arlert is in it.

 


	20. Crossed Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is flagged as containing a vehicle collision.

**TWO MONTHS LATER**

The man touched Toyeh on Thursday, at one-thirty in the morning. Touching wasn't allowed. He'd come in four times before, and only talked with Toyeh.

This time was different. As Titan watched from behind the bar, the man touched Toyeh's shoulder and her neck. He'd put a hand on her thigh and his fingers had gone between her knees. That wasn't allowed. It was not.

Toyeh had moved her knees a little bit, and then she'd tried to move his hand.  When Toyeh did that, the man had grabbed her wrist and twisted it, and she had yelped.

She'd said 'no'. Titan had heard her.

Titan had snapped. He couldn't breathe, and his belly boiled and heaved. Then, Titano "Titan" Delbello grabbed a baseball bat, and with a roar, leapt across the bar and proceeded to demolish his brother's burlesque club, Sharq Tanq.

Toyeh had said 'no' to the man. Titan had heard her.

__________

"Ambo sixty-eight…"

Levi looked up at Armin. Armin looked back at Levi. They were on graveyard shift, in the firestation kitchen and about to miss a delicacy. Firefighter Ymir Faltskög had just prepared kippers rolled in pastry and baked golden brown.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Levi muttered, when he heard the dispatch address. "It's Titan, again."

"Uh oh…" Armin looked worried. 

"Let's roll," Levi got up, shrugging into his lined jacket. "Save us one each," he glared at the squad of firefighters who dwarfed him, "or I'll knock someone on their ass." They believed him.

Ymir pulled the pan out of the oven, inhaling and smiling. The dish reminded her of home, and of everyone she missed.

"Yeah," Armin glared at the hungry squad. He wagged a warning finger at them as he backed out of the common room, "What Levi said. We'll be back! We're coming back in here!"

The vehicle bay was chilly. It was November, windy and rainy.

"This won't take long," Levi remarked, hopping into the perfectly prepped vehicle.

"I hope not," Armin said ruefully. He felt sorry for Titano Delbello. The Delbello brothers owned Sharq Tanq, a chic burlesque club on College West. The club catered to an upscale clientele, and featured some of the best drag entertainers in the city. There were dinner shows three times weekly, an oyster bar and deep leather couches. 

Angelo Delbello ran things. One of his brothers oversaw the kitchen. Their mother cleaned, did the books and looked after them all, Titano mostly. Titano Delbello was a good guy. He did what Angelo told him to do. He looked after the performers. Titano was six feet, six inches tall. When he was at Sharq Tanq, nobody bothered the performers. 

The eastbound lanes of College Street were blocked off; in front of Sharq Tank a clutter of squad cars had pulled up, cherry and blue strobes pulsing like Christmas lights. A few uniformed officers stood outside. The vicinity had been taped off. Levi ducked under the tape, approached the uniforms and had a short conversation.

Another police vehicle pulled up, unmarked, with a portable siren stuck haphazardly to its roof. A tall, bearded figure emerged. Armin recognized him immediately. 

"Detective!" he called out. His greeting was drowned out by a roar, shattering glass, and a barstool crashing through the front plate window onto College Street.

"Jesus, _fuck!"_ Levi leapt out of the way.

"Go away!" Titano Delbello roared. _"Leave Toyeh alone!"_

Police were approaching the building, tasers drawn. Armin's eyes widened in alarm. He darted across the sidewalk, grabbing the tall detective's sleeve.

"Les!"

Detective Hastings turned. "Hiya, Armin. Just hold your horses a sec…"

"Detective," Armin persisted, "Titan knows us. Can Levi and I try and talk to him?"

 _"Go awaaaayyyy!"_ Plates and bottles splashed onto the pavement. A pink feather boa flew out, lazily settling onto the smashed glass.

Angelo Delbello appeared on the sidewalk, sobbing and calling to his brother. "What the fuck! _Titan! Titan, stop!_ The'll fucking _shoot_ you, stop!" 

Levi looked up at Hastings. "Just me," his quiet, penetrating voice cut through the chaos. "I need ten minutes."

Les Hastings looked at the diminutive paramedic with the hard silver eyes. "You…?"

"Kandahar," replied Levi impatiently. "we're wasting time."

__________

Levi hadn't expected there to be so much glass everywhere. But then again, Titan had been alone in a mirrored lounge with a baseball bat for twenty minutes.

"Get… _out!"_ A coffee pot hit the wall near the doorway, exploding. Levi was in the vestibule, with Detective Hastings and another officer.

The ensuing silence was punctuated by Titan's sobs, angry and lost. Levi peered around the corner. Jesus Christ, what a mess.

Titano Delbello stood in the centre, cut and bleeding; his contorted face streaked with tears and snot, brandishing an aluminium softball bat.

"Private!" Levi's voice was sharp, crisp. "Stand down. We are secure."

Titan took a step. Levi heard a safety click beside his ear.

"Private, our orders are to stand down!" 

The huge man froze. He lowered the bat. Then: "Sergeant Ackerman. Sir!"

"Private," Levi barked, "You will stand down, ay-sap. I repeat, we are secured!"

Titano Delbello allowed the bat to slip through his fingers and clunk onto the dance floor. He straightened, eyes forward, and, raising a hand to his brow, saluted.

Levi approached slowly, stood in front of the distraught giant, met his eyes and returned the salute.

"Private," he said quietly, "well done."

Five other individuals were also inside the club, cowering beneath tables. They were family and staff, who had refused to leave Titan.

__________

Armin radioed for a second ambo. Uniforms were escorting the remaining staff out of the bar. One of the officers delivered a patient to Armin, who sported a number of cuts and bruises and a bloody nose.

Tall. Large dark eyes. Shivering. 

"Hi," Armin said gently. "I'm Armin. Can I have a look at you?"

She seemed agitated, which was understandable. Hesitant to get into the ambulance. She swallowed and her Adam's apple bobbed.

"It's okay," Armin encouraged. "What's your name?"

A pause. "Toyeh."

Detective Hastings approached. Toyeh's eyes fixed on Hastings, and she tensed.

"Here, look at me," Armin turned her face gently, holding a gauze pad to her cheek. Her eyes seemed to entreat him.

Armin frowned. He was sure he knew her from somewhere…but where? Had he seen her perform, perhaps? Her eyes were such a lovely shape. She almost reminded him of….then suddenly, he knew.

"Oh, God!"

Lesley was right behind them. "Get in the ambo, Armin."

Armin wheeled around to gawp at Hastings, who was looking at Toyeh. "Both of you. _Now."_

Armin glanced around. Levi was still busy with Titan, helping him transition into the other bus.

He hopped up, holding a hand out to Toyeh.

Lesley Hastings got into the rig, slammed the door and latched it. "Fuck!" he snarled.

Toyeh pulled off the blanket, chucked it against the far wall, leaned back and shook her head. Dark eyes flicked to Hastings. "Tell me you got something, Pud. Anything!"

Silence.

"Fuck!"

Armin looked from one to the other in utter confusion.

"It's okay, Armin," Lesley exhaled. "you did nothing wrong."

He glared at his partner. "You. You got made, you _fucking clown._ Six weeks of work down the mother-fucking drain!"

"Shut it, Pud. Let me fucking think." Detective Tariq Nassir's tone held bitter disappointment.

"He's bleeding," Armin reminded them. His gloved hands moved over Tariq's face and arms, dressing cuts. 

"Armin," Lesley said slowly, "'Toyeh' is Detective Nasir's cover. We've managed to make some serious headway here. We've got ourselves two choices now, boy. Either we pull Detective Nasir and 'Toyeh' disappears, or we rely on your silence."

"Armin," Tariq pulled out his phone, thumbing through it. He found an image of the quiet, sandy-haired man who had been visiting 'Toyeh' at the burlesque club. "is this the man who attacked you?"

Armin looked at the image for a long moment, squatting in the back of the ambo, a roll of gauze suspended around  Tariq's forearm. 

"Y-Yes."

He looked at the detectives, eyes sober and thoughtful. He swallowed. No one would know about this, ever.

Levi opened the front door of the ambulance.

"Toyeh," said Armin calmly, grabbing his clipboard, "do you have any ID with you, honey?"

__________

She needed him. She got home, showering as quietly as she could, so as not to wake him. Stepping out of the tub, she scooped all of the stray bath toys into a plastic bin, hung up Jean's towel and and scooped a fistful of pint-sized laundry into the basket.

She stopped, lifting a tiny t-shirt to her face. Playground sand, goldfish crackers. God, it was good to be home…. _Home_. She smiled, soft dimples.

Her negligee was silky, whisper thin, powder-blue. The panties matched, and were boy-cut for her body, delicate and fine. 

She wouldn't wake him yet. It was only four-thirty. She crept into the bed, where Jean lay on his back, and settled on top of him. Her head fit into the hollow of his shoulder, her thighs falling to either side of his hips. He stirred, his arms enfolding her. 

"Baby doll,"

"Ssshhh,"

"Fuck, you smell good."

Armin drowsed off, needing oblivion.

__________

It was the soft roll of his hips that woke her. Slow. Unhurried. Without opening her eyes, she nuzzled against his neck. One of his hands had fixed itself into her hair, fingers stroking. The other cupped her bottom through the soft satin, changed it's mind and slid inside her panties, squeezing a little, and she sighed, spreading her knees to press her swelling sex more firmly against his belly. She was still so tired. He must've been too. He was still again, breathing softly.

Armin started awake. She thought she heard breaking glass again. No, she was at Jean's apartment. But there was something. A glassy rattling. She rose, and he murmured at the loss of her warmth. Went to the window. Ah. Ice storm. The trees were glazed with it and the branches chattered. Sighed. Crawled back into bed.

Jean was in and out of sleep. "God, you smell so, so good."

"Mmm. You said."

"Such a pretty baby," he murmured into her hair, raising his hips off the bed a little, pushing against her. 

She cuddled against him, sucking at his skin.

"I have to get up," he whispered.

"Look at the ice storm."

He went to the bathroom and came back to bed. She wore little bits of blue satin. There was even a baby-blue ribbon in her hair.

"I'm cold. Come back," she reached for him.

__________

They teased each other awake. It began slowly; rubbing, rocking and pressing together, soft and languid except for the hard flesh pressing between their bodies. 

Armin lay with her head on the pillow beside his, face turned into his neck. "You don't know," she gasped softly into his ear.

"What?" his fingers had ceased caressing her firm little ass, and had moved between her cheeks to tease the twitching, pink pucker.

"I used to fantasize about you."

He chuckled. Reached a long arm out, knocked a bottle of Advil onto the rug, and found a tube of glide. He coated his fingers and, almost delicately, slid his hand back down inside her pretty panties, pressing softly against her entrance. "I fanasize about you all the time Arm," he murmured.

"N-no…oh…oh!" she whimpered as his fingers swirled into her, stroking delicately. "I mean, I thought about you, even when we f-first met. When you used to drive me home."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah," Such a soft confession. "Yeah, I did. I…ah…I watched your eyes. Your h-hands on the wheel. I…mmm…ah, that's good…"

He finger-fucked her slowly; her hips curling sensually into each stroke.

"I watched y-you," she panted. "Y-your hands. I wanted you to…oh…to kiss me in the back of that cab…"

He stretched her softly, inserting his other hand between their bodies, slicking his belly with lube. 

Her breath puffed against his ear. "W-wanted you to p-pull my legs apart…to…to pull down my panties. To…ah…God! To make me…to make me..."

"Y-you did?"

"Uh-huh…"

He smiled into the half-dark. "You never told me that," he whispered.

"I..oh….oh, do that _more_ … _just like that…"_

He slapped her small bottom, sending sparks of lust coursing through her. "Jean… _God, yes…"_

He spanked her again. "Like spanks?"

"I…"

"Tell me,"

"Yes….y-yes…I like to b-be your bad girl…" she gasped.

He slapped her squirming ass again. And again. 

"You are," he growled, "my girl. My bad girl, my bratty boy, my sweet baby. And now you're going to get it!"

__________

"Hold still,"

The kitchen light was on, too bright. Armin sat on the counter, Jean stood in front of him, their eyes level. Armin grinned.

"What?"

"You're gonna have a black eye."

Jean groaned. "What do I tell people?"

"Tell them the truth," Armin chuckled. "I threw an elbow the wrong way in bed and clocked you in the eye."

Jean grinned ruefully.

She had been so gorgeous. He'd flipped her onto her belly, blistered her little ass, pulled her legs apart and then fucked her, thrusting into her with authority while she'd sobbed and squirmed and came twice before he'd spurted inside of her, the sight of the little smacked-pink buttocks making him lose his mind and see stars in a churning orgasm. He'd yelled. And then she'd caught him with an elbow. A good one.

Stars.

"Arm, I need my guitar picks."

He kissed his lover, went and returned with a little plastic box. He opened it, plucking something out of it.

"Look baby, it's for you."

A tiny ear stud, white-gold. Shaped like a star.

"Aww, thank you," Armin's eyes twinkled. 

"See?" said Jean. "I have one, too." He turned his head. There it was, at the top of the row of silver studs he wore.

"You have two holes in one ear, right?" 

Armin nodded turning his head.

 _"Star,"_ Jean said softly, fastening the earring into Armin's ear. "I think that would be a good safeword for us."

Armin looked at him soberly. 

"Star. If I hurt you. In any way, during sex. Or, if you hurt me. Or if something feels uncomfortable. Anything. We use the word ''star', and it stops."

Armin nodded slowly.

"Like," Jean looked into Armin's eyes, "like, you've never said, but you don't like me touching your neck with any pressure, do you? I think it's because of what happened to you. And we never talk about it, baby."

The blue eyes shuttered, flicked down. Something.

Then, Armin looked up, once again mischievous, sweet.

"I want," he put his arms around Jean's neck, standing on tiptoe, "I want to play with you…"

"I'm injured. I have a black eye."

"I'm sorry."

__________

They dressed for work.

"Be careful today," Armin kissed him at the door. "It's icy out there."

"You too, baby doll. Be safe."

__________

"Zach!" Armin strode into the fire station, calling for Mike Zacharius. Mike was in the kitchen, feeding Kleenex. 

"Hi, sweetiepie!" Armin greeted their little pet. Then, "Mike. The driveway's sheer ice, dude."

Mike nodded, placing a warm hand onto Armin's head as he walked out to deal with the driveway.

"It's gonna be busy," Ymir remarked.

Armin sighed. "Yup."

__________

Downtown traffic had slowed to a crawl. Jean's car heater whooshed companionably, and he slurped his coffee. No worries. His phone rang. Glancing down, he saw that it was Mikasa. He flicked a button on the console.

"Hi, Mikki."

"Jean. How are you?"

"Yeah, fine."

"You're picking up Sasha today?"

"Absolutely. No worries."

"How is it?"

"It's not as bad as it looks," he reassured her, catching sight of his purple eye in the rearview mirror. Snorted again.

__________

"Fuck….fuck, _Levi, hang on!"_ the ambo began sliding sideways on the icy road, toward the bottom of the Avenue Road hill. When it was parallel to the road, Armin turned expertly back down the hill and stepped gently on the gas, regaining control.

"Shit, that was close." His eyes flicked to his GPS. "I know a flatter way 'round."

Levi Ackerman let go of the IV pole he'd been steadying. "Good," he said tersely, "Go!"

__________

Jean picked Sasha up from school in the cab.

"Daddy! It looks like a fairyland!" Sasha was bright and rosy-cheeked as she surveyed the silvery trees, cars and houses.

"Hi Sashmo!" He bent down, scooping her off the sidewalk.

"Daddy, can we play outside?"

"Sure bud. Let's get you buckled up and get home first."

"Sparkly," she breathed.

__________

The Dufferin Street hill wasn't as steep as the Avenue Road hill, but it was longer. 

At four-fifteen in the afternoon, a Brewery van struck a patch of black ice as it headed south through the intersection of Dufferin and College Streets.

The van skidded into the intersection, and into the path of an oncoming tractor-trailer from Furniture Warehouse. The rig driver slammed on his brakes, causing the huge trailer to jackknife across the busy intersection, and into the path of an oncoming car.

The rig finally screeched to a stop, after pulling down a cement light standard and a shower of sparking wire. 

Crushed beneath the tractor-trailer was what remained of Metro Toronto Taxi Cab 3561.

 


	21. This Is Happening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is flagged for an auto collision, lifesaving/paramedical activities, needles, blood, and hospital emergency room activity.
> 
> I should also flag that this little fic has kinda grown! It has lots of settings, and I want to stress that it is a work of imagination. The representations of emergency services, various professions and characterizations are my best attempt at creating a believable and entertaining story. Don't try any of this at home...

Metro Toronto struggled through rush hour, coated in silver slush.

Armin flicked the ambo's wipers on as he and Levi drove south on Dufferin Street, back toward the station.

"Salt trucks are out," Armin muttered. Beside him, Levi squinted.

The radio crackled. _[Ambulance sixty-eight. Six-eight, respond.]_

Levi groaned. Picked up the radio. "Six-eight."

_[Six-eight, initiating downtown west trauma plan two. Repeat, trauma plan two.]_

Armin took a breath. Trauma plans were area-wide, pre-coordinated efforts for larger-scale incidents. There had been two trauma teams in the city's west end. Now that he'd been certified, he and Levi made three.

Levi glanced at Armin. "TP two, kid. They need a trauma team. You ready?"

"Yup, let's go!" Armin nodded, lit up the ambo's rooflights, accelerated and pulled out of traffic.

__________

Detective Tariq Nasir shivered. It was chilly inside of Sharq Tanq, in spite of the boarded-up front window. A forensics team crawled carefully through the Lounge. They weren't concerned with Titano Delbello's breakdown; rather, their focus was on fingerprints, a thread, a hair…anything to help identify the man who had conversed with 'Toyeh'. 

The image Tariq had taken with his phone, under the guise of squeezing the phone into a new floral gel skin in the presence of the man who identified himself only as 'Sandy', had been clear enough for Armin to identify. And then, they had hit a wall again. No matches against any database. Nasir had been given the green light to continue undercover as 'Toyeh'. And now, with Titano Delbello finally receiving the treatment he needed, Sharq Tanq was also short one bouncer.

"No," Hastings had said to him flatly in the squadroom. " _Hells_ , no!"

"You won't even be under," Nasir had pointed out. "It's just moonlighting. You do it for Chris' band now, anyway."

"I do that to watch my baby play," Les said irritably.

"Fuck Pud, it's only two nights a week."

"I _like_ my weeknights," Les had grumbled, realizing that the assignment was a foregone conclusion. "I like sittin' in my sunporch. I like my beer. I like my dog. I like listenin' to my boy play guitar."

Tariq Nasir sighed, scrubbing a hand along his jaw, enjoying the security of the dark stubble that had reasserted itself. He was tired. The cuts and bruises, mostly to his arms, were still tender. He couldn't hold the baby properly and she'd mewled and fussed last night through her midnight feeding.

A uniform's radio crackled. The officer exchanged a few words with Tariq. _Trauma plan two, west end._

"Pud," he called to Hastings, who had crossed the room. Then louder, _"Les!"_

Hastings looked up, irritated. "What now?"

"Multi-car. Six blocks away. At least one minor involved. Dispatch just called an area-wide T2."

Les glared at Tariq, hands helds out to either side of his body. _What the fuck?_ He paused for a heartbeat, then grabbed his coat and his partner and headed out onto College Street.

__________

 _Frozen In Time: Secrets of the Nordic Glacier_ read the banner outside of the ROM. The exhibit was due to open in a week's time. It was beautifully-styled, and included a clear, lucite frame-up of the downed Spitfire, all of it's artifacts meticulously fitted into place. The information panels, typeset in retro typeface, told the story the discovery. 'Cedric' the mummy had been photographed, autopsied and documented through the generosity of the pilot's family, and his body had since been returned to Newcastle, England to be laid to rest. 'Cedric's' real name had turned out to be Lieutenant Edgar Mullins.

Mikasa Kuroda blinked. Twice. Nope, she wasn't imagining things. Standing outside of her lab, on the other side of the glass wall, were two police officers, one female, one male. Her first thought was that there had been a breach of security at the Museum. A theft, perhaps? Puzzled, she walked around her worktable and opened the door.

"Yes?"

"Doctor Kuroda? Mikasa Kuroda?"

"Correct." she frowned. _What was this?_

"Your daughter is Sasha Kuroda-Kirschstein?"

"Yes…why? What's happened?" her voice hardened instantly, brittle and frightened.

"We need you to come with us, please."

__________

Detective Lesley Hastings smelled the crash site before he saw it. Burning rubber and metal. The intersection, cordoned off, was controlled chaos. Two fire trucks, two ambos. Another ambo just pulling up. 

"Sixty-eight," Tariq commented, noting the ambulance's number. "That's Armin. Twice we've seen him in two days."

They pulled up to the curb, alighting and ducking underneath the cordon. A large tractor-trailer had cut a swath through the intersection, downing a light standard and smashing a bus shelter before stopping. A brewery van had flipped onto it's side, spilling several kegs out into the slushy street.

"Oh fuck," Tariq swore softly. "this is a bad one. That taxi's front end is right underneath the rig."

"Huh?"

"A taxi. Look."

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

_No._

__________

Armin pulled up onto the sidewalk, throwing open the rig's back doors. 

Chief Erwin Smith was already on-scene, with Mike Zacharius and Rescue Twelve. 

He greeted Armin and Levi tersely. "Ackerman. Arlert. Take the taxi. One adult male, one juvenile female."

Armin glanced around. _Taxi? Where?_

Oh shit, there. He hadn't seen the taxi at first, it's front end crushed under the tractor-trailer. Metro Cab. He wondered if it was a friend of Jean's. He hoped not. He hoped….

_3561._

He read the cab number again. Slowly. Blinked. 3-5-6-1.

_........This is happening._

They were his words. Words that came into Armin's head at critical moments when most people might scream, or flee, or panic. Words that pinned him firmly in the moment. Words that he'd needed to use too many times in his short life. Words that had allowed him to survive, and to excel at his vocation. 

 _This is happening._  

With those words came a strength of focus; and in such moments, his actions outmuscled his reactions.

"Levi."

Levi turned back.

Saw his young partner's grave face. Put the pieces together immediately.

Damn. Fuck. _Fuck._

He strode back, placed a hand onto each of Armin's shoulders.

"Armin," he said slowly. "Go, or no-go. I need to know, right now."

Armin's eyes blazed, adrenalin coursing through his slender frame. "Go!" he barked. 

"Because Team Two can…"

"No, boss! We're better. We're the better team."

_No one else will do this._

_I will do this._

_I can do this._

_I've come for you._

_God, please be alive._

__________

The hood and most of the front compartment of Metro Cab 3561 were wedged beneath the tractor trailer. The roof had been sheared sideways, to it's midpoint. The back compartment was intact. They'd have to go in through the back.

Armin saw Sasha then. One tiny, chubby hand squished against the side window.

He looked in. She looked out. Woozy, listless. Then, she recognized him. His face jarred her out of shock. Her features screwed up and she began to cry.

"Armin!" she bawled. _"Aaarr-min!"_

Ymir was at his shoulder, with a crowbar. "We'll get her now. We'll need to get that front seat out of here to reach the male."

Armin's voice was clear, and firm. "Sasha. Sash, look at me right now. Turn your face away, honey. We're going to break the window. Do it now."

The little head turned, it's tiny ponytail looking forlorn.

Ymir Faltskög tapped the window. The glass fractured in a thousand places, crumpling. Hands were cutting Sasha's booster seat restraints, and then Ymir put her into Armin's arms.

"Good girl...that's my brave girl," Armin said softly into her hair.

She leaned out of his arms, pointing tearfully into the wreckage, "D-Daddy! _Daddy, Armin."_

"Shhh, it's okay now," Armin soothed. "I will get him, sweetie. It's okay."

He looked over Sasha's head. There was Les Hastings. He nodded, unhooking Sasha's arms from around his neck. "Les. Take her to ambo three."

Sasha was transferred to Uncle Les's arms.

"Back up," Lieutenant Zacharius ordered Armin tersely. 

Circular saws began to scream, and spark.

__________

Deflated, shredded airbags. Jutting glass, like dragons' teeth. Jean had twisted himself backward and become wedged between the two front seats, arms and torso reaching into the back seat, toward his daughter. It looked as though he'd lunged backward at the last minute, attempting to push Sasha's tiny head down as far as possible. 

His eyes were closed, one eyelid sporting the purple passion bruise Armin had given him. His skin was chalky beneath the shag of sandy hair.

_This is happening._

Levi was on the other side of the car, trying to thread the backboard carefully alongside Jean's body.

His skin was cold to the touch. 

Vainly, Armin searched for a pulse. "Jean, come on, baby…"

Then, Jean Kirschstein coughed.

"Sa–" he parted his lips, a mouthful of bright blood drenching his chin.

"Sa-sha!" he gasped.

__________

Armin drove, certain of his route. Two lefts. One right. Then straight on to Mount Sinai Emergency.

He lost traction on the ice once, easing off the gas and snarling, "Oh no you _don't,_ you prick!"

They were on University Avenue when he heard the one thing from Levi he'd been praying not to hear.

"Armin. Pull it over," Levi instructed evenly, "He's coding. I need an assist."

Armin ducked into the back of the ambo, appraising their patient carefully. Jean was unconscious. Armin had braced and splinted his left leg, which was fractured. His hip was twisted, a joint displacement. Levi had cut away his jacket and t-shirt. His throat was purpled and his abdomen was swelling steadily.

And he'd just stopped breathing.

Levi had begun CPR compressions. Precise, efficient. _One, two, three, four_ …

Armin scanned the monitors.

"Come on," Levi growled softly, "Come on, Jean."

Finally, a spike on the monitor. "Stupid bastard," Levi exhaled in relief.

"Intubate?" Armin asked. Levi nodded. "Yes. Go."

Armin's fingers found the breathing tube, pulling off the wrapper and threading it carefully, quickly, down Jean's throat.

Levi shook his head. The pressure visibly building in Jean's chest cavity was dangerous. Levi ordered a decompression.

Armin grabbed the puncture. Unwrapped it. He looked up, meeting Levi's steady gaze. His partner's fine features flashed blue-cherry-blue in the strobes. "I'm ready," Armin nodded. "Now?"

The tiniest pause. "No," Levi said tersely, "Give it here." 

Levi grabbed the puncture, located the soft spot beneath Jean's sternum, and stabbed quickly and crisply. Listened with his stethoscope. Eyes flicked to the monitors.

"Ok. Stable. Let's get the fuck out of here."

__________

Armin pulled into Mount Sinai Trauma Unit at five-twelve p.m. 

Nurse Garnet Jones' team was waiting for the ambo. Levi hopped out of the ambulance alongside the gurney, relaying Jean's vitals to the trauma team.

Jean was wheeled into triage. 

Armin observed keenly, silently watching the triage team work. Watched the monitors. Watched the apparatus breathing for his lover as they worked to stabilize him.  Jean's torso was swollen black-purple, like smashed grapes.

The team paused to assess their patient.

_Please baby...come on, come on..._

After an agonizing moment, Jean began breathing shallowly on his own, his pulse faint but defined.

The doctor looked up at his colleagues and nodded. "Let's move."

Armin slumped against the wall, weak with relief.

__________

When Jean was wheeled out of triage and into prep, Armin went in search of Sasha. He wandered toward the ambulance bay. Then, out through the sliding glass doors.

He felt dizzy, suddenly. Nauseous. He stumbled through the brightly lit ambo bay, toward the taxi stand and onto the dark, ice-spiked lawn. Toward where Jean should be, snug and warm in his cab, playing chess and waiting for Armin to bring him coffee. 

Adrenalin deserting him now, Armin dropped to his knees in the frozen grass and retched miserably.

He didn't realize he was weeping until Levi was beside him, pulling him close.

"L-Le…" he hiccuped.

"Alright, kid. It's going to be okay now."

"No… _oh, no..."_ Armin came apart in Levi's arms, kneeling on the lawn of Mount Sinai Hospital, sobbing brokenly into the folds of Levi's quilted jacket.

"Levi, please….p-please tell me we d-did enough… _please_."

"It was good. Nothing was missed." Levi reassured him. 

"I _tried_ ," Armin cried. "I got it _done_ …I got it _done_ … _I took care of him…"_

"It's okay, Armin. It's okay now, kid. I've got you..." Levi arms tightened protectively.

After Armin had quieted, Levi spoke gently. "Come," he said. "Doctor Kuroda has arrived. Let's go inside."

Armin stood, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths. The ice storm had stopped. An eerie silence had descended upon the city.

"Levi," Armin asked his partner. "the chest decompression? You didn't let me do it. I know how. I could've done it."

Levi shook his head. "No. If it went wrong, I could live with you hating me. I couldn't live with you hating yourself. Now, I'm the one that has to do all the fucking paperwork."

They walked back into the hospital to find Mikasa and Sasha.

__________

Someone was in the brightly-lit corridor. A tall figure. Rumpled, awkward, with a roughly-tied crest of auburn hair that reminded Armin of a rampant rooster. The figure wore a white coat, and scrubs printed with menacing-looking, coloured monkeys.

The colourful doctor turned, regarding the two EMTs. 

"You," barked the doctor, bearing down on them and wagging a finger at Levi Ackerman, "you short, stunted little prick!"

The doctor wore glasses, square-cut, in a bizarre frame that strapped around the back of her head.

Levi chuckled. It sounded like smooth rocks under water. The sound was so incongruous that Armin stopped, staring at the two of them.

"Hey, if it isn't Shitty Glasses!"

Armin's mouth hung open.

"Flaming hell," snorted Levi, looking the doctor up and down, "they can't fix ugly, can they, Zev?"

"Zoe," corrected the rampant rooster. "It's _Zoe_ now, you shit-eating runt."

Levi turned to Armin. "Armin Arlert, meet Doctor Zev - _no, sorry -_ Doctor _Zoe_ Hanji. Chief Trauma Surgeon, returned from sabbatical."

Armin was left speechless. 

__________

Les stood against the wall in the hospital waiting room, and dialled. Waited. Three rings.

"Yo, Papi," Chris drowsy voice. "You want me to make us some food?"

"Chris," Les swallowed. "Get your coat on for me, boy. I'm sending a car to come get you, okay?"

"A - why?"

"Jean's had a car accident. I'm at Sinai. You…." he took a breath, "you need to come now, baby."

__________

Mikasa was ushered into a small, blue-lit consultation office, waiting to wake up from what seemed like a bizarre dream.

She knew Doctor Zev Hanji by reputation. He was a patron of the Museum, and a generous donor. He was also ex-military, and had been a decorated field surgeon. The individual addressing her now appeared to be more of a mad scientist than a trauma surgeon; a haphazard topknot of bright auburn hair, aviator goggles, and scrubs patterned with acid pink-and-orange monkeys. The surgeon had introduced herself as _Zoe_.

Mikasa's heart was pounding. On the table in front of her was the legal power of attorney she carried for Jean. He held the same in trust for her. It enabled each of them to act on the other's behalf, and it was in Sasha's best interest. The choices and decisions about to be made, were hers.

A row of x-ray images glowed in stark relief in front of her. Jean's tibia; shattered. Two ribs; broken. Torn ligaments. Separated hip and shoulder. 

Armin sat beside her, listening acutely. He smelled faintly of sick, his delicate face tear-streaked. She threaded her fingers through his, squeezing. A low, calming voice to her right. Levi Ackerman, Armin's partner. He asked the surgeon to clarify a few points for her benefit. They seemed to be acquainted.

When Mikasa Kuroda was satisfied that she had all of the information, she signed the forms presented to her, and nodded. 

__________

"Mama," Sasha said softly.

Mikasa sat in Sasha's hospital room in Mount Sinai's pedriatic wing, in a large, lumpy chair by a window, her sleepy little one in her arms. A single bedside lamp cast a restful glow.

"Yes, pichu?"

"When is Daddy coming?"

Mikasa traced her fingers slowly across her daughter's forehead, over the tiny, perfect eyebrows, over the little seashell eyelids. 

"Try to sleep," she whispered.

She leaned her head back, staring out at the dark parking lot, punctuated by floodlights. Down the hall, a child was crying. 

Sasha burrowed into her arms. For the first time in a very long time, her little thumb crept into her mouth.


	22. Surfacing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is flagged for serious injury, hospital activities and situations.

_Tender is the night_

_Lying by your side._

_Tender is the touch_

_of someone that you love too much._

_Tender is my heart,_

_you know_

_I'm screwing up my life._

_Oh Lord I need to find_

_Someone who can heal my mind._

  _~Blur_

____________

_If I'm dead, this sucks. I'm scared. I'm confused. I hurt. I thought being dead would be...I don't know. Awesome._

Soft, yellow lighting. Beeping. Beep, beep, beep.

_Who is it beeping for? Alarms in the world of the dead…_

Jean chuckles to himself. 

  _Fuck, that would've been a great album title. Cherry Kirsch: Alarms in the World of the Dead. It would be a themed album like….like if you're dead, and someone you loved really, really needs you…an alarm goes off in heaven and you have to like…go back to earth and help them. Like a guardian angel._

When he opens his eyes, he sees foggy globes of light, like blurred bokeh on Christmas cards. Yellow and red. The red bokeh shiver and resolve into letters. A sign, hanging.

EXIT, it reads. 

_An exit sign? To where?_

_…if I'm dead, why am I all alone?_

_I wasn't much, I wasn't anything special. But I was loved. Where is everybody?_

Bokeh again. Hot, swarming bokeh, through his tears.

_______________

He fades in and out.

Beep, beep, beep. EXIT. 

_Ceiling. Glass walls, drapes. And…oh. Sound! Voices!_

A head floats into his line of sight. Oh God, even though it's blurry, it's still  _fucking terrifying_ …shrewd dark eyes, square glasses, and a face mask. It has a halo of shaggy red hair, like a murderous muppet. 

It's not alone. Others are present. A spot of light sears his eyes.

_Oh, that can't be "The Light". If it is, it's lame. A total disappointment. Like a haunted house at the fairground that promises so much, but the inside is all just peeling paint and urine-smell._

The light flashes across his pupils again. 

"How we doing today, Jean?"

_I'm just peachy. I'm scared and…and freaked. What the hell is going on?_

Hands are touching him. Lifting.

Agony ripples through his body. It's so severe that he can't catch his breath. His body shudders, and he's pretty sure he's pissing himself.

_Stop it!! Stop it!! That hurts!!_

The shaggy head looms back into view.

"Good," it says, "Very good." And then, "Jean, you're in the hospital. You've been in an accident. You're safe now."

_Hospital. They don't tell dead people that they are in a hospital. I mean, that would be redundant, right?_

_I guess I'm still kicking. But where is…_

He had met Sasha in the schoolyard on a glittering icy afternoon and lifted her into his arms so she didn't fall.  _It looks like a fairlyland, Daddy…_

_Where is my Sasha?_

_Sashaaaaa...._

__________

Mikki's labour had been interesting. She'd been focused, alert. Jean was, on paper at least, her birthing coach. However, he'd found himself mimicking her breathing patterns…short and even, and followed by a long inhale and exhale. Exactly as they'd been instructed. 

Mikki had walked the hospital hallways. She'd paced her room. She'd leaned over a birthing ball. She'd squatted. She'd kept telling Jean that everything was going to be okay. This was a good thing, as Jean's stomach had been in knots and he'd found himself wracked with anxiety and hovering over her like a frightened crane.

She hadn't been excessively vocal during the birth; even when her face and limbs shone with sweat and she'd gripped Jean's supportive forearms hard enough to leave bruises.

She'd delivered Sasha Aika Kuroda-Kirschstein, with the same focused, relentless tenacity that she applied to everything else in her life.

Aika. It meant 'love song'.

_A moment in time: Sasha is sitting on the time-out stool at Armin's loft. She'd earned the time-out because she'd squished an entire tube of toothpaste onto the bathroom floor and frosted her dinosaurs with it. She'd then scooped them out and stuck them all to the toilet seat._

_The time-out stool was tall - too high for her, really - and it had a shiny wooden seat. It was so high that her feet dangled, sad little lollipops in coloured shoes. Her face was puffy and angry and tear-streaked. She found that she had to grip the edges of the seat and wind her ankles around the legs to keep from sliding off of it._

_And that was exactly what she'd done for ten long minutes; glared at Armin and Daddy while hanging on and refusing to allow herself the indignity of falling off the stool. Tenacious, just like her mother._

__________

Jean's eyes open. EXIT. Beep, beep, beep.

Someone is there. Is it the crazy person that comes to torture him and make him piss himself?

No. Dark hair. Serene.

_Oh, Mikki. Mikki! Why can't she hear me?_

"His eyes just opened."

A disembodied voice: "Yes, that's normal."

"Can he hear me?"

"We don't know."

"Jean?" _Jon._ Cool hands caress his face. Mikki looks tired and her complexion is a little greenish.

"Hey you," she smiles. "It's going to be okay, now..."

_Where is Sasha??_

Beep beep beep.

She reaches into her handbag. Takes out something colourful. Dangles it in front of his immobile face. String?

"Look, Jean. Sasha made this for you. It's a necklace. They cut up drinking straws into segments, and thread them onto a piece of wool. Isn't it clever?"

_Oh, God. Oh, thank heavens. Sasha is okay. He has never felt such excruciating relief in his life. Oh, God, thank you._

She looks up, away from him.

"He's crying. If he's crying, maybe he hears me?"

"We don't know, Doctor Kuroda. We just have to be patient."

__________

Chris Guthrie had gotten a D-minus during their sophomore year at Humber College.

"You didn't take the assignment seriously," Marco had said.

"Dude, D-minus?" Jean had chimed in.

The assignment was a songwriting workshop. Chris had orchestrated a blazing guitar solo with one repetitive phrase: Blood Union Railroad. The piece, unsurprisingly, was entitled: _Blood Union Railroad._

"I mean, dude. It's fucking awesome. But you know it's musical masturbation. You didn't even fucking _try_ to write lyrics."

Chris Guthie had taken a long, deliberate, slow drag on his joint and passed it to Marco.

"Jodd" - throatful of smoke - "Jodd…you don't get it, man…the railroads spanning this fucking _country_ were built on the blood of the unwanted. The unseen. I can't help it if a short-sighted prof can't see outside of the box, bro."

Marco had looked at Jean. Jean had shrugged, and made Kraft Dinner. Chris had played _Blood Union Railroad_ , unplugged. For an hour.

__________

_There is a place inside of him that only music can touch. It feel like…what? Like something firing his blood? No, it's more like finding his courage._

His skin is waking up. It's bad. He's itchy. He pisses into a catheter and it burns. His throat is full of rusty nails, stuck sideways. They've shoved things up his nose. Into his mouth. Into his arm. 

It must be nighttime. Nighttime means darker ceilings, striped with shadow. Beep Beep Beep EXIT.

Strumming.

_Ohhhhhhh..._

Strumming. Delta Blues. A high note, hung onto, like frost on a bell.

_Oh, fuck yeah. Testify, baby._

Sweet, sweet music. He opens his eyes. Chris sprawls in the ochre, padded-vinyl hospital armchair. Boots up on the bed. Playing blues.

_Jesus, Chris!…Chris, look at me, man! I'm talking to you! Look at me! Can't you hear me?_

Chris stops, dragging a forearm forlornly across his tear-filled eyes. Snuffles. Resumes playing.

_Dude…dude. Fuck, my eyes are open. Can't you tell I'm awake?_

Another voice. It's Lydia Adandwale. Lydia, their jazz vocalist. 

Chris begins to slowly pick out a familiar tune. It's the melody that he and Jean co-wrote this past summer. Armin's song. Chris stops. Holds his head in his hands, and weeps silently.

Lydia picks the tune up where Chris has left off. She sings it to Jean softly. Humming. And then words. Beautiful, haunting words, he presumes in Bantu. She sings to him.

_I want to sing too._

Jean opens his mouth. _Am I singing? No one can hear me._

There is a sound in the room then, a pained gurgle.

Chris's head jerks up. "Did you hear that? Get someone! He just said something! Kirschy?

__________

Armin had worn a backless dress to Brighton one night, to listen to Cherry Kirsch play. Dark, inky blue. She had sat at a square bar table, legs crossed, her back curved in a sinewy line that made Jean's groin ache. She'd worn matching gloves. She had chatted softly with people she'd met; people that had become her friends. She'd worn a little vintage hat, with a netted veil. 

Rocky Lee was on sax that night, and he was on fire. Soulful, lost, fucking unbelievable. He even blew Chris Guthrie into the background. 

Afterward, Jean had taken her home to the loft, teasing her senseless as she'd straddled his lap in a wide leather lounge chair. He'd ripped a hole in her nylons, yanked aside the satin panties and pushed his slicked fingers inside of her roughly while she'd writhed at the burn and locked eyes with him through the mesh netting of the little hat she still wore. 

"Do it," she'd gasped, "Fuck me just like this…."

That night, the Floating Fish restaurant had caught fire at the south end of Eastern Avenue. Armin's phone had rung, slicing through the quiet dark of the bedroom. Armin had been speaking to Levi, his iphone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, pulling off bits of lace, struggling into a clean work shirt, speaking rapidly.

He'd crawled onto the bed, leaned over, and kissed Jean warmly on the mouth. 

"Mmm,"

"Make me pancakes?"

"No."

"Get up and make me pancakes?"

He'd left and closed the door quietly.

__________

Jean feels a series of tiny dips on the bed. Boop, boop, boop. Opens his eyes. 

A miniature, white, whiskered face is peering curiously into his. Sniffing his lips. A little paw, like a pussywillow, on his cheek.

It's Kleenex, Armin's kitten.

"I…owo…."

 _Mew._ A little puff of tuna-breath. He can smell it…

_I can smell!_

A hand scratches the kitten on the head, scoops it gently away.

Armin's face floats above his. It makes his heart hurt. 

_Oh, my love…_

Armin looks so, so tired. His fine features are pain-etched; the round, blue eyes are sunken, dark-rimmed.

Fingers caress his forehead, his cheek. 

"Are you cold?" Armin asks.

_What I am…is scared. I'm so scared…No one will tell me what is happening…_

Armin pulls up the bedding, tucking him in gently.

_What is going on? Who is that mad lunatic that comes in and tortures me and then nods? What do they want? Help me, Arm!_

"Your mom's been here," Armin says softly. "Do you remember?"

He doesn't. Or does he? 

"I made soup," Armin continued. "It actually didn't suck." his soft voice trembles, hitches. "Y-You need to wake up and eat some for me, Jean, 'kay?"

_I'm awake. I AM AWAKE._

There is a scraping sound as Armin pulls his chair closer. Close enough to lay his head on the pillow beside Jean's head, nuzzling at Jean's neck gently. Armin's scent fills Jean's nostrils, sweet, heady. The pale hair is silky against his chin.

_Oh please, oh please….just stay there. Please, just stay like this. Please, just for a while, Arm._

Armin does.

__________

_Is this it?_

_Is this what my life is, now?_

_Waking. Beep, beep beep. EXIT._

_Caramel-coloured ceiling._

_Psycho Glasses hurting me._

_Loved ones pretending that I'm somehow okay, all brittle, false brightness._

_Pissing and shitting into containers. Being stabbed. Washed. Wiped._

 

Mikasa comes frequently. That, in itself, aggrieves him. It hurts because he's now remembered that he put Sasha into the back of the cab.

He can't bear Mikki's smile, her kindness.

_I am so sorry…I'm sorry, Mikki…I'm so ashamed…Can you ever forgive me?_

 

He opens his eyes. A dark head, beside him. Mikki.

Not Mikki. Who is it? 

Oh. It's Levi Ackerman, the paramedic. Armin's partner.

Levi sits in the chair, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. The hooded grey eyes watch him, unblinking. They have all the warmth of a shark.

_What do you want, exactly?_

Levi studies him.

_Seriously, fuck off, you. What do you want? You have no use for me, at all. You've made that very clear since the day we met._

Beep. Beep. Beep. EXIT.

"I know you can hear me," Levi's soft voice is penetrating. He's like a tiny Godfather.

"One week ago," Levi began, "you were in a collision. It was a multiple vehicle accident. A beer van skidded on some black ice, and into the intersection of College and Dufferin. It hit a tractor trailer, which jack-knifed and took out a bus shelter, a streetlight and your cab."

Jean feels a surge in his chest. Finally, someone is telling him what he needs to know. He tries to say something. He must have made some sort of inhuman gurgle because Levi's scrutiny intensifies.

"Armin and I were dispatched to the scene. Sasha was removed from the cab first. She had a few scratches, but was otherwise uninjured. She's been asking to see you, but her mother and her grandmother think it's best to wait a while."

Levi stops. He takes a breath, keen, shark-eyes searching Jean's face.

"You were found wedged between the front seats of the vehicle. It appears that you twisted around, reached back and pushed your daughter's head into crash position. Your actions very likely saved her eyesight, her spinal cord and quite possibly her life. And your own as well. You would have been decapitated."

"Huuuuuhhhruuuu…" Beep. beep. beep. The beeps are speeding up. Levi's eyes flick to the monitors.

"Armin and I transported you. You coded twice before you were stabilized here at Sinai. You arrived with a fractured tibia and fibula - that's your lower leg - two fractured ribs, a shattered hip and displaced shoulder."

"Leeee…" Jean wheezes, surfacing.

"You were in surgery for seven hours. The trauma surgeon that operated on you is one of the best in North America. Former army field surgeon. I had the honour of serving with him. _Her_. Hanji. Doctor Zoe Hanji."

_Thank you. Thank you. Th -_

Levi rose, leaned over, placing his hands onto the bedrails and his sharp face close to Jean's.

"Leeev…Leeee.."

"That's it," Levi growled. "Come on, now. Come on. Wake the fuck up, now. The people that love you don't deserve this, Jean Kirschstein."

"Aaaah…I…"

" _Fight,_ you little fuck."

Bright. The pain was excruciatingly bright and hard. Everything was suddenly louder. He could finally move his head. His eyes darted around the intensive care unit. Monitors, green and blue lights. Poles, tubes. Blankets, glass walls. EXIT.

Levi Ackerman. Smirking.

"Levi," Jean croaked, raising a hand weakly. "Levi, thank you."

"Welcome back," the grey eyes shone quietly. "You've got alot of work to do."

 


	23. Irma

Irma Kirschstein wasn't a person given to false displays of sentiment. She loved her family in an unvarnished, down-to-earth fashion that caught Armin a little off-guard, but not for long.

It had been mid-August, and Armin had answered the phone at Jean's apartment. "Hello?"

A pause. "This is Jean's mother."

Her delivery was flat, matter-of-fact, and German-accented.

"Oh! Oh, hi…Jean's not back yet, he's getting Sasha. I'm…this is Armin."

The caller had held the phone away, yelling loudly at someone else in the room with her. _"What? No, Hannes. Jeanbo isn't home."_

And then, speaking into the phone: "Jean's dad, he's going fecking deaf."  

Armin's mouth had quirked curiously. Had Jean's mother just said 'fucking deaf?'

"He's trying to move the air conditioner by himself," Jean's mother explained. "I told him to wait for Jeanbo to do it."

Armin puzzled for a split second. "Oh, Jean's dad is trying to take out an air conditioner? From a window?"

She was yelling at her husband again. _"No, Hannes! It's Armin! I'm talking to Armin. Jean's Armin."_

And then to Armin, "He doesn't fecking listen to me."

"I see," said Armin, who really didn't, but was growing more curious by the second. 

Jean's mother didn't do that _thing_ on the phone…that false bright, melodic, sing-song fakey thing his own mother did. 

Armin was curiously drawn to her direct nature.

"If you can just tell Jean his mother phoned. Please. _Danke._ "

"Of course I will…."

__________

They'd met at the end of September, when it was still pleasantly warm and the leaves had their first flush of fall colour. Jean's parents lived just outside of the city, on the fringe of suburb and farmland, in a lakeside community.

"Oma!" Sasha has squealed excitedly. "We're going to see Oma!" 

This confused Armin to no end, and he'd looked at Jean blankly. _Oma_ and _Ota_ were European terms for grandparents, Jean had explained. Jean's parents were from Vienna.

His mother's given name, in actuality, was Irma.

Sasha had fallen asleep in the  car, her little sunglasses askew as she slumped in her car seat. 

Jean glanced sidelong at Armin, trying to suppress a snicker. 

"What?" asked Armin innocently.

For the big introduction, Sasha had insisted on doing Armin's hair. Armin had let her, and he now sprouted seven or eight messy pigtails, each secured with a plastic barrette. Sasha had completed the look by adhering a glittery heart sticker to his cheek.

"Hey," Armin had chuckled. "If your parents can't appreciate their granddaughter's handiwork, oh well…"

Jean had picked up his hand and kissed it. "I want you like that," he snickered. "Just like that, but wearing knee-socks..."

"Perv."

__________

Irma had greeted them in the kitchen. She was solidly-built, with curly, greying hair and Jean's lovely, almond-shaped eyes.

"Oma!" Sasha had run into the kitchen, throwing her arms around Irma's ample waist. 

"Are you hungry?"

Sasha's entrance had woken a little spotted dog, brown and white, who began barking and nosing for attention. "Jake!" Sasha knelt down, screeching as Jake lapped at her face happily.

Irma looked up, holding out her arms. She embraced her son tightly. "Jeanbo..."

"Hi, mom."

Jean half-turned. "Mom, this is Armin."

" _Ja_ , I know that," Irma said. She held out her free arm, embracing Armin. "Welcome, Armin. You have a German name, you know."

Then, without further preliminaries, "Come, look in here…" Irma led Armin down a hall and into a bedroom, where an air-conditioner was fixed into a window.

"Oh," Armin said immediately. "well, that's no problem. We can move it."

"Thank you, Armin." she looked up at him then, an amused smile lighting her careworn face.

"I like your hair," she said.

__________

Hannes came in from the garden then, and they had lunch. Jean's dad was very tall, and had a tendency to stoop, in the way of someone unpleasantly used to banging his head repeatedly on things. 

He had shaken Armin's hand, given him a once-over and jabbed a finger at his granddaughter. "You do this?"

Sasha nodded proudly. 

"Will you do Ota's hair?"

"You don't have enough hair, Ota."

"Jeanbo, you'll help dad with the air conditioner?"

" _Yes_ , mom. We already said."

"And the storm windows. They're at the side of the house,"

"I _know_ , mom."

Jean's dad waved a hand, "It's okay. We don't need to do all that today,"

"Yes, Hannes!" Irma countered loudly, "It's better if they do it today, you'll hurt your back."

 _"Okay, mom!"_ Jean rolled his eyes.

Sasha fed a piece of sausage to the dog.

__________

After they had eaten, Irma brought out a box of pictures.

"Maybe Armin might like to see these," she said brightly.

Jean stood up suddenly. "Not now, mom. I thought we'd take Jake and Sasha down to the creek for a bit."

Irma's face fell. "Well, you want some coffee first? I made a lemon cake?"

Armin glanced up at Jean. Lemon cake and photos sounded appealing.

"Not _now_ , mom." Jean said shortly. "We'll walk the dog first and then get the windows done."

"Doesn't have to be today," Hannes mumbled again.

Armin walked into the back of the bungalow, in search of his sneakers. He found them in a room painted pale blue and trimmed with a wallpaper border. The room contained a double pull-out bed, which had been made up with fresh sheets, he assumed for Jean and Sasha.

"Is this okay?" Irma was behind him. "For the two of you? Sasha likes to sleep in the other room with the fish tank."

"I…yes, thank you so much." Armin said quietly.

Her acceptance of him was complete.

__________

They walked by the creek, Sasha and the dog scampering ahead.

"Not too far, Sash," Jean called to her.

Armin watched the sun spark and glance off the creek as they walked. He was unusually pensive.

Jean slipped an arm around his waist, kissing him softly behind the ear.

"You're quiet, baby."

Armin frowned. "You're awfully impatient with your mom," he observed.

"No, I'm not," Jean laughed. 

"I think she wanted to sit and visit."

"She's fine."

"Well, _I_ would have liked to talk to her."

"You _do_ talk to her. You talk to her on the phone. The last few times you've talked to her longer than I have."

"That's because you just put the phone down and walk away," Armin's voice held quiet displeasure. "It's mean."

A snort.

"You don't speak to your mom at all," Jean pointed out.

"That," said Armin, "is different."

"Oh?" said Jean archly.

"My mom isn't a very nice person."

Sasha was chucking stones into the creek. 

"Well, you like my mom," Jean said, "maybe I would like your mom."

"No," Softly, controlled. "My mom is not like your mom. There were…things that _happened._ " Armin was looking at Jean, serious and watchful.

"Well, sorry." Jean said irritably. "I never know when I'm stepping into foul territory with you, do I?"

A space of several terrible breaths. Armin was standing very still, Jake's red leash dangling from his hand. His chest rose and fell. It was the first time Jean had really hurt him.

"You don't get to do that," Armin whispered. "You're not ruining today for your mom. Or for me."

__________

They'd returned to the house. Armin had helped Jean and Hannes take out the air conditioner and put in the storm windows. Then, he'd gone into the kitchen and helped Irma peel apples for a pie while Jean and his father watched football and Sasha made a doghouse for herself and Jake with some overturned chairs and blankets.

"I can't bake, really." Armin had confided.

Irma had leaned over, inspecting the apple slices.

"It's fine," she'd said simply. "It's a pie. not a masterpiece."

He had sat at the table with her, looking at pictures of Jean as a child. He'd been adorable, unexpectedly chubby-cheeked, like Sasha.

"He loved his omelettes," Irma said.

__________

That night, on the squeaky pullout bed, Jean had looked at Armin's shoulder blades and the back of his neck, and his blond head on a Bugs Bunny pillowcase.

He'd embraced him from behind, lips soft against Armin's neck, telling Armin he was so, so sorry, until the frightened break in Jean's voice had caused Armin to capitulate, roll over and pull Jean close, snuggling against his solid warmth.

__________

The night of the accident, Irma and Hannes had arrived at Mount Sinal Hospital at around eight-thirty, after receiving Mikasa's call.

The hospital was large and confusing. Irma and Hannes hadn't known where to find their son. Too many rooms, bright lights, people rushing in all directions. They had stood in the corridor, feeling lost. And then, Armin was there, taking their hands and telling them that Jean was alive, that he was in surgery.

Afterward, Irma had gone into the intensive care unit. She had lifted the sheets carefully, counted her son's fingers and toes. Seen the compression girdle and stockings. The catheter and tubes. The smashed purple skin. She'd looked over every inch of her only child, the same way she'd done the day he was born.

"I love you," she'd said.

__________

Jean woke. Morning. He'd finally been moved out of intensive care, to a room with a window. The late fall sun slanted in, warming his face.

Armin was curled in the chair beside him, wearing thick socks and reading the paper.

"Hey you," Jean croaked. 

Armin looked up. Smiled.

"Arm, I gotta piss," Jean squirmed, realizing that something was different. He raised the sheet slowly. He was no longer attached to a catheter. He glanced to the side. He still had an IV drip stuck into his arm, and was still tethered to the IV pole he's come to call 'Wayne'.

"Armin," Same sentence, with renewed urgency, "I need to take a fucking leak!"

"Okay," Armin stood up calmly. "then I guess you'd better get up and take one."

"Oh, Jesus."

Jean had been in the hospital for three weeks. He had pins and rods in his leg, and was now just beginning to bear partial weight, aided by a walker. His hip didn't hurt him. His throat was still raw, but what was most troublesome were the broken ribs. These had been stabilized, but the healing was slow.

He stared down at his penis. It looked strange and abandoned without the catheter.

"Come on," Armin urged gently, aiding Jean through the steps he employed to sit up. Jean grabbed the stainless steel grips suspended above his bed, raising himself. "Ugh! Shit, that hurts."

"Breathe."

He held onto the arms of his walker, sweating profusely, shaking and miserable.

"Let's go," Armin said gently. "I'll roll Wayne."

They made it as far as the dresser, Jean crying out in panic for a bedpan, which Armin supplied.

"Aaaaahhhhhhh. Damn it."

"You got further this time," Armin grinned at him. "you'll get further next time."

__________

Armin went to work when Chris turned up. Jean wasn't sure which caregiver he liked better. Chris fetched-and-carried for him, snuck him french fries and coffee, fixed his blankets. Armin encouraged his independence, patiently guiding him through the excruciating steps required to do even the simplest tasks. Jean was worn out, irritable.

It wasn't until Jean was situated in bed, in an upright position he could tolerate, that he realized Chris had brought two guitars with him. 

"Dude," he croaked. "I can't fucking sing."

"It's all good," Chris said gently. "I don't know what's gonna happen to the rest of your body, but your throat's gonna heal. They _said_."

He placed the guitar gently against Jean. Jean began to shake, his eyes filling with tears. 

"Strum," Chris said. 

Jean cried.

"C'mon, dude," Chris encouraged.

Jean placed his fingers onto the frets. "W-what are we doing?"

"Armin's Song," Chris said, "Key of B, bro."

He began to play. It was clumsy for a few moments. Then, it was music. His music.

__________

"Your mom's staying at the apartment," Armin told him the next day.

Jean rolled his eyes. "Oh, _man_ …."

"It's fine," Armin said.

_"Why?"_

Armin bit his tongue. He was about to say, 'she's helping', but knew that would only heighten Jean's frustration. "She wants to spend time with Sasha."

"I'm going to be okay now," Jean groused. "She should go back and take care of dad."

An orderly came in then, positioning Jean's bed table and leaving his dinner. Slowly, Jean lifted the lid off of the round melamine tray.

"Oh," he said. "Spaghetti. Arm, will you cut my spaghetti?"

"Cut it yourself," Armin replied. 

Jean looked at Armin. The deep blue eyes were serious, but warm. "You want to come home, right?"

"Not if it means living with my _mom!"_ Jean groaned.

"She's incredible. You're being a spoiled little jerk."

"She's overbearing…she needs to know everything!"

"Arm?"

"Yeah?"

"I gotta piss."

__________

Armin had fully intended to go back to the loft, allowing Irma free rein of the apartment above ' _Charred Squirrel'._

He'd tidied up, changed the bedsheets, cleaned the bathroom and packed some clothes and toiletries into a bag.

Irma had been standing in the kitchen stuffing a chicken.

"I…uh…I changed the bed. And there are fresh towels in the bathroom for you."

Irma looked up. The young man her son had taken as his lover looked drawn, and tired.

"You can sleep okay on this couch here?" she'd asked him.

"Uh, yeah, the couch is fine…but I'm going back to my loft tonight. I wanted to give you some space and…"

"You will stay here."

He smiled. He still looked sad when he did that, which disturbed her. 

"Thanks anyway, but I actually have a cat as well, and…"

"Go and get the cat," Irma said. "When you get back, we'll eat."

Armin's throat had begin to ache. Irma had put the chicken into the oven, wiping her hands on her apron. Then, her arms went around him. She was warm and comforting and solid. 

__________

Armin took up residence on the brown couch of a thousand stories. One morning, he woke early, before dawn. What time was it? The living room was dark, but the light was on in the kitchen and Irma was making coffee. There were a few boxes in the living room. Christmas ornaments and crafts for them to enjoy with Sasha later.

Irma padded silently into the living room, so as not to wake Armin. She placed a mug of coffee quietly onto the table, stooping down to open one of the boxes. 

Against the faint backlit glow from the kitchen, she took out a couple of ornaments. She paused then, reaching into one of the boxes. Out of it, she pulled a large, red felt Christmas stocking, obviously homemade. It had letters written on it, spelled in glue and glitter. It had a little felt guitar-shape glued onto the front of it, and music notes. 

Irma smiled then, warm and comforting. She stroked her hand lovingly across the stocking, lifted it and hung it onto the hook over the electric fireplace. JEAN, the glittery letters read.

Armin watched her from his nest on the couch, fascinated. He wondered what it must have been like, having a childhood with homemade Christmas stockings and roast chickens and storm windows. 

__________

Saturday afternoon, Jean put on a clean sweatshirt and fresh pyjama bottoms. He pulled his grey wool beanie on and sat in the therapy chair in his room. Today, Sasha was finally coming to see him. He couldn't wait.

The he hiccupped. He hissed, doubling over. _Fuck_. The pain when his diaphragm contracted was horrendous. It felt like a hot knife. 

Armin came out of the bathroom, looking at him quizzically.

 "I just _hic!_ " Jean tried to explain. He hiccupped again. _"Ow!"_

"Huh," Armin frowned. 

"I n-need the bathroom," Jean gasped, "I feel sick…"

"Okay," Armin was at his side in a flash. "Did you have hiccups like this yesterday?"

"N-No…"

Jean sat on the toilet, leaning on Wayne, his IV pole.

Armin stepped out of the bathroom, grabbed Jean's bedside chart and scanned it. He noticed that Jean had been started on a new course of antibiotics that morning. He took his phone out of his pocket and called Levi.

"Levi?"

"What's the matter?"

"Where are you?"

"Downstairs, as it happens. Why?"

"Really?" Armin sounded relieved. "Why are you downstairs?"

"I'm filling in at south station. Took a shift. We just dropped a patient off."

"Shit, can you come up here?"

Jean hiccupped, then retched.

Armin hung up, scooped up some towels and a bucket for Jean.

Levi showed up presently, read the chart and placed a direct call to Dr. Hanji. 

__________

Jean huddled in the hospital bathroom for two hours. His nurses had initially tried to assist him back into bed, but the hiccups had become severe, and his stomach upset continuous.

He sat on the toilet, gripping the IV pole, shaking. Armin had tried to comfort him, but his touches only seemed to distress Jean further.

Zoe Hanji had come to see him as soon as she'd gotten out of surgery. She'd reviewed the chart and ordered an immediate change in meds.

A nurse had come in not long after that, with a paper cup containing a dose of greenish liquid. She'd explained that this would calm Jean's hiccups.

Jean was past caring. He struggled for breath in between the agonizing hiccups, grimly hanging on.

"Armin…Sasha was supposed to come," he cried, hunching forward miserably. He hiccupped again. _"Ow!"_

"Arm," he implored, "Can you g-get my mom? I need my mom…" He dissolved into tears.

He clung to the IV pole, in a haze of pain. Armin called a nurse in.

Then, Irma was there, pulling him gently against her. 

"Mom," it was muffled against her sweater, "Mom, it h-hurts! I can't stand up…I can't stop the hiccups…it h-hurts!"

"I know. They gave you something to make it stop," she soothed. "I've got you, sweetheart. It's okay…"

"I'm s-so sad…j-just…all I want is t-to see…to see my child!"

 "……I know."

 


	24. Standing Up

"Daddy?" 

She stood in the doorway, holding onto her mother's hand. Mikki had done her hair in two plaits, tied with blue ribbons. She had on her cozy dress that Armin had made for her, with denim on the outside and flannel stars on the inside. She'd insisted on wearing her yellow rubber boots.

Jean sat in his therapy chair, his stomach twisted and sour with the fear that something would prevent her from visiting again. But there she was.

Mikasa bent down and reminded her to be gentle. Sasha's eyes were bright and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. She eyed Jean cautiously.

"It's okay, Sashmo," he smiled at her shakily.

"Daddy!" 

He held his arms out and she ran to him. She wasn't gentle. He didn't care. He pulled her onto his lap, held her as close as he could. She threw her chubby little arms around his neck and squeezed.

"Sasha, gentle…" Mikasa cautioned her.

Jean closed his eyes, breathing in her scent. Baby shampoo and wet wool mittens and peppermint. The tears came then. Pure relief.

He held her away, inspecting her…her little face, her arms and legs, her teeth and eyes.

"You're okay, Sash? You okay?"

Her wise brown eyes looked into his own. Reflected in them, he saw no blame, no trepidation.

"You're okay too, Daddy. We brought you noodles."

"Daddy?"

"Yes, honey?" 

"Kleenex lives with us now. I love Kleenex."

"Well, that's cool…" Jean set her on her feet, gritting his teeth and shifting in his chair.

"And Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"I can burp my name now."

__________

It amazed Jean that within the hour, he was exhausted. His mom came to take Sasha home for dinner. 

"You need to rest," Irma admonished him.

"I _know_ , mom."

Then, his mother said pointedly to Mikasa, "He needs to _rest."_

"Yes Irma, he does. I am leaving shortly…" and then, "thank you again, for everything."

Irma flapped her hand impatiently.

When Sasha had given Jean five kisses and a squish, she departed with her Oma.

Jean stood, gripping the IV pole carefully. "All I ever do," he sighed, "is piss."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I'll be back."

When Jean limped back out of the bathroom, Mikasa was sitting upright in the visiting chair by the bed, a folder in her lap. She rose, assisting him into bed and propping him up with pillows.

"So?"

"So."

"How do you really feel, Jean?"

He signed. "I dunno. Pain is tiring. But on the other hand, they keep telling me that pain isn't always an indicator of how well I'm healing. Or not. Like, ribs take a long time to mend, you know?" 

"I need to speak with you."

He turned his head, regarding her. It occurred to him suddenly that she'd never played him. Never manipulated him. Never been anything except blunt and forthcoming.

She sat, straight and still, watching him. 

He found himself weeping again. _Fuck_ , this was annoying. He blamed it on the drugs. "Tell me," he whispered, "tell me that we'll be able to...to get past…what I did."

She frowned slightly. "What did you do?"

He gaped at her. "Sasha…"

"No," she said firmly. "You did nothing wrong, Jean. Nothing between us is broken. If you need to talk about the accident, by all means I will listen to you. But…"

Jean blew his nose.

"But Jean, I have had to make some decisions on your behalf."

He looked at her. She pulled a coloured pamphlet out of the folder and placed it onto his tray table.

"Your leg was broken. You know that you have rods and pins inside of your leg now. It is healing well. The rods may be permanent."

"Yeah, I know…"

"The same for your ribs. Your shoulder is healing on it's own."

Jean picked up the pamphlet.

"You might notice," Mikasa took a breath, "that there is not a great deal of pain in your hip."

"Well, uh, yeah…"

"This is because your hip has been replaced."

"My –"

"Yes. We were given a choice. Fuse the joint as-was, which would have resulted in decreased mobility for you. Or replace it entirely, giving you virtually full range of motion. It is ceramic, new technology."

"I…my _hip?"_

"I tried," she dropped her eyes. "to make the correct decision."

"I…really?"

"Really. You have the complete picture now." She placed her hand on top of his and squeezed. A rare gesture. "This was…" she stopped, took a breath, "this was the most difficult set of choices I have ever had to make. It is actually you that needs to reassure _me_ that we are still…still okay."

He squeezed her hand, tightly.

They sat, without speaking, until the light faded and Jean slept.

__________

"Historia Arlert?" the deliveryman read the waybill carefully, trying to determine if the letters spelled out the name of an actual person, or of the physiotherapy clinic that he was standing in.

"That's me," the petite blonde flashed him a smile. "But I go by 'Krista'. You must be new?"

"Uh, yeah…"

"So, what's your name?"

"Rob."

"Well, lucky you, Rob."

The young woman, who called herself Krista, grabbed an exacto knife and sliced open the top of the cardboard box, inspecting the contents. "Great. Perfect. Thanks, Rob!"

"Sure," he nodded. "Kristy?"

_"Krista."_

"Krista."

He left, the harmony bells on the door glittering brightly as it swung shut. Humming, Krista began unpacking. Therabands, hand grips, dressings, latex gloves, non-latex gloves. 

Historia Artemis Arlert. Her father, a frustrated history professor, had given her that name.

She'd begun using Krista in high school. It had been on one of those days when they'd had a sub in gym class and everyone had given the substitute teacher a fake name. She'd used 'Krista'. It had occurred to her that afternoon, as she sat in the principal's office, to actually ask if she could have a nickname on record with the school. After all, her friend Antonia got to be called 'Toni'.

She'd asked them to update her nickname in the school computer as 'Krista'. The secretary had told her that she'd need a note from a parent. That was easy enough to obtain from Maureen, who would be too sloshed to know what she was signing. 

Her elder brother, apparently conceived on the Isle of Skye, had been sacked with Glenross Clyde Arlert, and escaped intact as simply 'Ross'.

And little Armin, well, he'd narrowly escaped being called 'Hannibal'. Thank _fuck_. Armin had had enough to contend with as a child, without having been called Hannibal or Attila or whatever else their deluded father might have christened him before leaving Maureen for his teaching assistant and moving to Poughkeepsie.

Krista's small, nimble hands paused in their unpacking, knocking a roll of sponge underwrap off the counter and onto the floor. It fell, soundlessly, unrolling.

Each of them had fallen and broken, just as soundlessly. 

__________

"Are they okay?" Armin had just returned from the garage that serviced the city's emergency vehicles. He'd had new snow tires put on the ambulance.

Levi kicked the new tires expressionlessly.

He walked around the vehicle, Armin following him.

"They're supposed to stay a little pliant, even in sub-zero temperatures…"

_Kick._

"Well?" 

"You get the rad flushed?"  _Kick._

"Yeah."

Levi nodded. "Fine."

A giggle. An odd, bright sound. Levi looked up. 

"Hiya, Grinch," Krista Arlert walked into the vehicle bay, holding a basket in front of her with both hands. Her breath puffed hazily in the cold air.

Levi nodded at her.

"Hey, Kris!" Armin hugged his sister awkwardly around the basket. "Uh oh. What?"

"That's so sad," she shook her head. "How pathetic is it that people in our family see one another and go, 'uh-oh, what?'"

"Sad." Armin agreed. 

"How's Jean?"

"Coming along," said Armin carefully. "He's not doing too badly. He's ready to start physio. Sasha went to see him today."

"Have you talked to Ross?"

"No," Armin sounded annoyed. "was I supposed to talk to Ross?"

"I guess not to mom, either?"

 _"No,"_ rather loudly. "No."

"Okay, okay…I'm not here to get on your case. I actually brought you guys a treat. Look? Holistic muffins. Fair trade coffee."

"That's nice," Armin smiled. "Isn't that nice, Levi?"

"Yes, so very nice," Levi said flatly.

Krista wandered into the station's common room and kitchen. She recognized a few faces. Big Mike Zacharius. Chief Smith. 

"Hi, guys!" she chirped.

A few of the firefighters rose to greet her, inspecting the contents of her basket. Someone pulled out the packet of fair trade coffee, tossing it over the island and into the kitchen. "Here. Faltskög, brew up!"

A long, brown arm shot up into the air, catching the packet. Krista looked over. A tall, languid, freckled figure slouched at the island, leaning on her elbows, curiously watching her.

"What's in your basket, Red Riding Hood?" A smirk. Even, white teeth.

"Muffins," Krista quipped.

__________

Jean stood in the bathroom, naked, one hand clenching his IV pole. 

"It's my last day with you, you wanker," he told it.

With his other hand, he traced down the side of his body. He'd lost weight. His skin was still a blotched mess of yellow bruises. And there, on his hip, a neat half-moon scar. He fingered it gently. He had a new hip. He leaned his weight gently on his left leg. It was time, they'd told him, for him to begin rehab. 

The bathroom door was open a crack. Someone had come into his room. He saw a flash of pale hair.

"Arm?"

No answer. 

"Armin, come look at this!"

Nothing.

Louder, "Dude!"

The door opened. Wheat-pale hair. And a curious, heart-shaped face that did not belong to his lover! A young woman, who resembled Armin but was most definitely not him, appraised him.

Jean yelped, rooted in place.

His visitor laughed. Soft bells over the surface of his skin. "Hi there," she said.

Jean grabbed a washcloth, holding it over his groin and looking pained. "I…I thought you were…you were…"

"My brother? I see," Krista raised an eyebrow. "and what do you want with my little brother, exactly?"

Jean's face was a contorted mask of utter confusion.

"Who…who?"

The curvy, petite young lady plucked Jean's robe off the floor, draping it around him efficiently.

"I'm Krista Arlert," she said brightly, "and I will be your physiotherapist."

__________

There was only one person from whom Levi Ackerman would have accepted a hundred-dollar steak. Just one.

Corvado Steak House was located in the city's west end, out near the airport. It catered to executives primarily; polished business travellers seeking to impress. It had always been a favourite of Zev Hanji's. _Zoe's._

She was waiting for him at the bar. She wore a charcoal grey coat, and a silk shirt, untucked. She'd made some sort of effort to tame and style her russet mane. Her black, square-framed glasses were firmly in place.

"Hello, Zoe," Levi greeted her. He wore an immaculate dinner jacket, and a white cravat.

"Hello yourself, runt," Zoe Hanji embraced Levi, clapping him on the back. "Great to see you. Table?"

Levi followed the maitre'd to the table. He'd thought about this moment, rehearsed it in his mind. The maitre'd placed the menus onto the table. Turning, Levi carefully pulled the chair out for his friend. Zoe smiled, warmed by the gesture.

When they were seated, Levi handed her a small, slim box. "You won't like it," he told Hanji. 

Zoe opened the box. A silk scarf floated out. "You little prick," she said appreciatively, "it's lovely."

"Armin picked it out."

They ordered drinks, and then prawns, and then steaks. They talked about Jean Kirschstein. About Levi's perfect decompression and Armin's slightly rough intubation. They talked about Zoe's transition, and her sabbatical. They talked about Israel. They swapped war stories.

They didn't talk about the two wormy scars on Levi's forearm. Levi hadn't earned them in a skirmish. He hadn't caught shrapnel from an explosive device.

He'd earned them in a dark alley outside an army bar in Haifa, during an altercation that had begun with one of the army's finest surgeons being called 'faggot' and 'homo' and had escalated quickly. Levi and his friend Captain Zev Hanji had been thrown to the filthy pavement, punched and kicked. 

Levi Ackerman had broken the jaw of one of their assailants, and beaten a second unconscious. _Don't ask, don't tell._  He had no regrets.

__________

Evening. The hospital hummed softly, winding down from the chaos of the day. Armin had stopped at the nurses' station on Jean's floor. The nurses often let Armin have a peek at Jean's chart. 

Ah, good. Armin smiled to himself. Krista had checked in earlier, and had taken Jean on as a client. His sister worked at a private clinic; one which placed emphasis on holistic and natural medicine. Mikasa's health plan had covered some of the cost. And Marco Bodt had insisted on covering the rest.

He entered Jean's room, stopping short just inside of the door. Jean stood in the centre of the room, on crutches. He'd dressed himself in trackpants, a t-shirt and hoodie. He'd combed his hair. He looked at Armin, offering him something between a wince and a smile.

Armin approached him slowly. Very carefully, he exchanged one of the crutches for his own shoulder, embracing Jean and allowing the taller man to lean on him. Jean's arm tightened around the slender shoulders. He hopped a little, pulling Armin directly in front of him.

"Look at me," he whispered. "look at me, baby."

Armin raised his face to his lover's.

"Jean, I…"

"Ssshhh," Jean bent his head, his lips ghosting over Armin's temple, his forehead, his eyelids.

Armin made a small sound, sweet and pained.

Jean's lips grazed the corner of the sweet, pink mouth.

"I'm not going to kiss you," he teased, echoing the exact words that he'd said to Armin the very first time he'd kissed him, playing chess at Kew Beach. "Because if I do, I'll never know if you…if you wanted me to, or if you just let me because you're a nice person."

"I will let you," Armin snickered, "but only because I feel so sorry for you…"

Jean's lips brushed against his, trembling, tentative, and then he was being kissed, fierce and needy. 

"I…" Armin breathed, breaking the delicious contact, "God, I've….missed you…"

 

 


	25. Fabulous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note carefully: This chapter describes incidents of bullying. It also references self-harm, biting and scratching. If these things are triggers, kindly be warned.  
> It also talks about finding a way through these serious and harmful conditions, and finding hope.

SAA…SAHS…SASH…AAAA SAShhh. Scrawled in ice.

"Sasha?"

She looked up from her hot cereal "Yes, honey face?"

Armin snorted. "Sash, did you write your name in the frost on all the windows this morning?"

"I don't know."

"Well, _my_ name isn't SSAAHA. And neither is Oma's."

Sasha shrugged, wide-eyed, her spoon in her mouth.

"You know," Armin turned his back and resumed packing her little backpack, "the elves are watching you, through the windows."

"Well," Sasha said thoughtfully, "now they know my _name_."

Armin's phone chimed. He leaned over to look at it. _Ross_ , read the display.

"Armin, phone!" Sasha prodded.

"I know. I'll call them back later."

"Is it Daddy?"

"No. It's my brother."

Armin reached into the backpack, fishing out a piece of red cardstock. Onto it was printed, in magic marker, 'It's Tang's 5th Birthday Party!'

"Oh shit!" Armin muttered.

"I'm telling the elves."

"Sash, it's Tang's birthday party tomorrow. Looks like we forgot. I'll call his mommy today. Oops…"

"Tang is a girl."

A party.

__________

HIGH SCHOOL, 2004

Armin smiled behind his geography textbook. He'd been invited to two parties. Two. The first was Andrew Goldstein's. Andrew Goldstein was his friend from chess club. Andrew's mom had phoned his house. Maureen was sleeping and Krista had answered the phone. Krista was eighteen, so she'd said that it was okay for Armin to attend, if he'd wanted to. 

There was another party, though. This party didn't have invitations. He'd been changing in gym, trying to hide in a corner and squirm out of his t-shirt and back into his sweater vest. 

"Hi, Armin, how's it going?" He'd looked up to see Reiner Braun, one of the older boys on the football team. Armin had flattened his back against the tiled change room wall, like a frightened badger. 

"I-I-I…"

"So, Armin, you busy on Saturday night?"

Armin had thought about sitting in Andrew Goldstein's basement, eating ketchup chips and gaming. Andrew Goldstein had a hooded rat.

"W-why?" he'd whispered.

Reiner had clapped a thick hand onto his shoulder. "How'd you like to come to a party?"

"Oh, no. No, it's okay…I don't…that is, I can't. I don't think I'm _allowed_."

"Oh," Reiner had seemed let down. "Well, if you change your mind, just let me know. It's at Annie's."

"Oh," Armin had repeated. He'd wanted Reiner to go away because he'd had to pee.

 

Armin sat in the back of his geography class, assignment already completed, hunkered down behind his textbook, biting his nails. What to do, what to do?

He'd seen Reiner after school. Reiner's locker was close to his own. 

"Reiner? H-hey Reiner?" he'd piped bravely,  "I'll uh…I'll come to that party on Saturday."

The big linebacker had his back to Armin. He turned, looking down at Armin Arlert and slamming his locker shut. 

"Huh?" Reiner looked momentarily confused. "Oh, oh yeah. The _party_. That's great, Armin."

"What uh…what time should I…should I get there?"

"About nine would be great."

__________

Irving Lampe burst onto the Toronto fashion design scene in the early '90's. His bespoke suits, shirts and ties were classic cuts, punched up in unexpected ways. _Ralph Lauren meets Marmalade Skies_ , one trade article had boasted. He'd expanded to include wool knits; refreshing, alarming takes on cultural mainstays from Ireland, Scotland and the American east coast.

His favourite model was Ross Arlert. Ross wasn't tall enough for runway work, but he was lushly photogenic. Irving Lampe's print campaigns were almost exclusively black and white, or desaturated. And Ross Arlert delivered; full lips, flecked eyes, aquiline nose, blunt chin, fair, curly hair.

Exclusive to Irving Lampe. And Ross's time was waning.

"Two more years," he'd told Irving. "I'm paying off my student loan, then that's it. I'm gone."

"You break my heart," Irving had told him. "This is _so_ tragic."

"Sorry."

"You don't want to come to NYC with me?"

"I want to teach, Irv."

 _"Ugh,"_ Irving Lampe had needed a hot cup of tea then, to settle his nerves.

Ross had a garden apartment. It was actually a converted garage in Leaside, a quiet, leafy neighbourhood in the city's north end. He sat at his kitchen table, a neat stack of bills in front of him. On the top, opened and carefully unfolded, was the statement for his student loan. Only two more payments, and it would be gone. 

He'd worked his ass off for Irving Lampe, all through teachers' college, and for a few years afterward, full time. He was twenty-seven years old, living on his own, finally free. Ross looked around his tiny kitchen, smiling peacefully.

The phone shrilled on the wall. He grinned. Saturday, ten-thirty p.m. His friends must have gotten wind that he was in hiding, chilling out and going to bed early as he was scheduled to work early Sunday morning. They'd be calling to harass him into coming out, anyway.

He picked the phone up. "No," he said into the receiver.

Silence.

"Hello?"

"R-Ross?"

He sighed, his perfect, fake construct of freedom crumbling. It was Armin.

"Hey Armin," he said warily. "what's up?"

"I d-don't have my inhaler," his little brother panted.

"Why?"

 _Eep, eep, eep_ , Armin sucked in a few breaths.

"Please, w-will you come and get me?"

Ross sat up, listening intently into the phone. "Armin, where are you?"

"I don't know," his fourteen-year-old brother sounded bleary, and confused. "The street signs say I'm at Dundas and Bloor, but Dundas and Bloor don't _meet_ , _Eep, eep, eep._ "

Ross was standing up now. "Yes, yes they do, Armin. Do you see a donut store?"

"Yeah."

"You go inside there, and you wait for me."

Ross hung up the phone, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair, the pile of regularly-paid bills swirling onto the floor. He snorted. Who was he kidding? Until Krista and Armin were out of that house, there would be no freedom. 

__________

He was sitting at a beige plastic table in the corner, with his hood up. He clutched his knapsack on his lap. He looked so small. Why the hell had Maureen let him out this late, this far from home?

Armin saw his brother, got up mutely and walked out to Ross's jeep. He opened the door, slid into the passenger seat, and stared out of the window, his huge, blue eyes vacant.

Ross opened the driver's door, got in and studied his little brother.

"Armin?"

"Mom thinks I'm at Andrew Goldstein's house, gaming in the basement."

Ross regarded the diminutive boy thoughtfully. What on earth had happened? Had Armin been _drinking?_

He rubbed his temples. It was now eleven-thirty. He needed to be up at five. Six hours.

"Armin, how about you come home with me tonight?"

Armin peeked out at Ross. 

"I'll deal with Maureen." Ross offered.

"Okay." Armin chewed at a ragged fingernail. 

Ross reached into his pocket, producing Armin's spare asthma inhaler. Armin shook it, taking a dose. Coughed. His tiny, delicate face looked utterly miserable.

"Buddy," Ross said softly, "what happened?"

Armin shook his head, tears spilling down his face and plopping onto the top of his knapsack. Ross drove home, his belly cold.

__________

It had been a joke. Those kids hadn't really wanted to be his friends at all. They'd invited Armin to Annie's party. They'd all talked to him. They'd given him a red plastic cup of peach fizz and vodka. His cheeks had flushed pink. It was his first taste of alcohol.

They'd asked him about his hobbies. He'd told them that he liked building models, mostly model airplanes. A big boy called Rick had said that he liked models, too. Some of them had smiled. Annie had asked him what he had in his pockets. As it turned out, he'd had some gaming dice in the pocket of his corduroys, and some kleenex. He'd been happy to explain what games he liked to play. The other kids had smiled some more. Two of the girls had giggled. No, they'd snickered.

He'd looked up then, brushing long bangs out of his face. Slowly, his bright smile had faltered, melted into a sad little line. They didn't share his interests at all. They'd only asked him here to tease him. 

 _Eep, eep, eep_. He couldn't breathe all of a sudden. His heart was pounding in his ears. The snickers had become full-blown laughter. He'd scrambled to his feet, knocking over a bowl of chips, and clutched his knapsack to his chest, blinded by tears.

He'd burst out the front door and ran, down the street until he got to the corner and found a phone booth. 

Now, he sat on the floor in the bathroom of Ross's garage apartment, sobbing inconsolably. _Why did they hate him?_ He bit at his nails until they bled. He scratched at his hands. He wanted to vanish. To just _not exist anymore._

__________ 

Ross Arlert sat on the other side of the bathroom door, with his cheek pressed to the cool wood. "Armin?"

"G-go away!"

"I can't do that, buddy. I wish I could. I wish we could _both_ go away. To Spain or to Tokyo or to Malaysia. But we can't. So we have to figure things out."

 _"You d-d-don't know a-anything about me!"_ Armin cried.

"You're right," Ross swallowed. "I don't. I suck. I have no idea what's going on. And I'm scared."

The knob turned.

__________

Ross had called Maureen, their mother. She'd said the same things she always did; she didn't know how to _handle_ Armin. She was out of her depth. Her youngest child was weird, inward, sulky, and now he thought he was gay. _Gay._

Ross had slammed down the phone receiver and gone into the living room. Armin had transferred himself to the couch, where he curled, silently watching TV.

"We're getting up very early," Ross said evenly. "we're going to have coffee, and then you're coming to work with me."

Armin looked at Ross, for a very long moment. His glamourous, grown-up, handsome brother. Next to Ross, Armin felt like a dirty little scab. But with Armin, curiosity always won out over nursing his hurts.

"Okay," he said.

__________

Irving Lampe took one look at Ross Arlert. 

"Oh, you _bitch_. Well, you've _destroyed_ today. Look at the _bags_ under those eyes."

Armin looked around Irving Lampe's studio, blinking owlishly. The first thing he noticed was the smell; fresh freesia, hot coffee, and steam irons. There was a row of makeup chairs, opposite a bank of postwar factory windows which looked out onto the city's west end factory district. The area was experiencing an urban renaissance. Designers, coffee shops and renovated lofts were breathing new life into the vacant factory buildings. 

Sina Court Factory Lofts! Opening 2005!, a sign advertised.

Beyond the makeup stations were racks of garments, cameras, grey, square reflectors and lights which tilted. The floor was hardwood and it squeaked underfoot.

The far end of the studio was not in use on that particular Sunday; it held offices, sewing stations, tables and bolts and bolts of fabric - wool, silk, satin.

Armin's knapsack slid unheeded down his leg and thumped onto the floor.

Ross stepped to one side, and Armin came face-to-face with Irving Lampe. He was speechless. Here was a man, perhaps in his fifties, with a wild shock of greying hair and enormous, oval eyeglasses with modish white frames. He wore a black cashmere turtleneck, chino slacks and shoes with pointed toes.He also had on a fringed kimono, in periwinkle blue. 

Mr. Lampe looked down at the unkempt little boy in the beige zip-up raincoat and too-short corduroy pants. Then, he gasped, clasping his hands together as if he'd just seen a unicorn, or a film star.

"Oh _no_ , Ross! Oh no, you _didn't_!" he exclaimed delightedly, "what on _earth_ is this?"

Ross, who had been put into a makeup chair so his eyes could be slathered with anti-inflammatory cucumber cream, raised his head.

"Mr. Lampe, this is my brother, Armin."

"Oh, I'm not actually _speaking_ to you," Irving flapped a hand at Ross, "I might forgive you if we can salvage your complexion. But in the meantime, oh my, _oh my_. May we style him?"

"No…no," Ross winced. "I-I don't think…"

"Okay," said Armin, finding his voice.

Ross blinked.

"Oh, _heavens!"_ Irving clapped his hands together.

Armin was boosted up into one of the makeup chairs. It swivelled around. His feet didn't touch the floor. A pleasant girl with curly hair approached him, but Mr. Lampe shooed her away. "Oh no, Amy, let _me!"_

Mr. Lampe pulled off Armin's hood. Armin blinked. The next thing he knew, a hot towel was applied to his face, scrubbing gently. It felt heavenly. A dollop of mousse, like cupcake frosting was carded through his fair hair, as Mr. Lampe pulled it back off his face. He was given a coffee with white, cinnamony froth on top. A _cappuccino._

"Ross, I _hate_ you," Irving Lampe exclaimed delightedly. "Hiding this child from me. You're just _cruel_. You need to let me shoot him."

"No, I'm afraid not, Irv." Ross' tone was protective and final. "We've got…well, we've got kind of alot on our plate, just now."

Mr. Lampe took in the torn, bitten fingernails, and the angry scratches on the backs of the boy's hands. He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"You're a _jerk_ , Ross," he said sweetly. "Oh, look, look at this _face_ , oh my _God_ …" Mr. Lampe pulled Armin's hair, back and pinned it up. "Let's try a shirt, shall we?"

The next thing Armin knew, his striped cotton shirt from the boys' department at Target was on the floor, and he had on a small, cream-coloured cashmere sweater.

"No," Mr. Lampe changed his mind and pulled it off.  "We need _contrast_." The sweater was replaced with a smoke grey one. "Oh, yes. And now, some texture." Mr. Lampe pulled off his kimono, draping it artfully around Armin's small shoulders. He turned the boy toward the window. The morning light caught Armin's enormous eyes, like winter water.

" _Fabulous_ ," Irving Lampe breathed, enraptured. He twirled Armin back toward the mirror. Armin studied the creature in the glass. He looked like a tiny version of Ross. Whatever they'd put on his face had made it pale and even and creamy. They'd lined his eyes with the barest hint of charcoal grey, and put something on his perpetually-chapped lips that felt soft and moist.

Mr. Lampe's kimono smelled of cologne; subtle, citrusy and expensive. Armin felt very grown-up in it.

Ross, who'd been whisked away to wardrobe, came back into the room then. He'd been transformed. He wore sage wool trousers and a matching coat, lined with Japanese silk.

Mr. Lampe looked him over. "Gorgeous bitch," he said approvingly. "very well, my wrath is appeased."

Ross however, was staring at Armin, who sat in the makeup chair, swathed in a blue kimono and sipping fancy coffee. Armin smiled, a cherubic, dimpled grin. Ross's heart melted.

Mr. Lampe clapped his hands loudly. " _Okay,_ people, let's get moving, now! Has the sheepdog arrived yet?"

__________

Armin was allowed to sit in a canvas chair and watch Mr. Lampe's crew take pictures of Ross. Armin chuckled a little. Ross made serious faces, pouty faces, stern faces. He was very focused, working exactly to Mr. Lampe's direction. After lunch, they changed Ross into a luscious, cream-coloured sweater and had him pose with a sheepdog. The sheepdog got excited, licking Ross's face, and Ross tried to fend him off, laughing. This delighted Mr. Lampe, who urged the photographers to keep shooting.

Ross modelled ties after that. Silk cut ties that were very expensive. Mr. Lampe gave Armin a visitor's pass on a lanyard, and told him to feel free to walk around. Armin wandered around the studio cautiously, eyeing the bolts of fabric, like enchanted, gleaming trees. 

Amy, the curly-haired assistant, gave him a glass of water from a pitcher that had limes floating in it. Armin had forgotten all about his knapsack. It was Ross who remembered it, opening it up to stuff Armin's discarded shirt into it. Armin's textbooks were inside. Ross frowned. His heart sank.The books had all been defaced, in marker, with lewd drawings and homophobic slurs. He was shaking, as he zipped the bag back up.

Armin was playing with the sheepdog, trying to give it some water in a bowl, and picking out the limes and giggling. 

Ross sighed. Approached Mr. Lampe. "Irv, can we talk?"

"Honey, we can always talk," Irving said to him.

"Seriously," said Ross. "I love that kid, and he's going down a rabbit hole, and I don't know what to do."

Irving Lampe pulled off his glasses thoughtfully. "Do you think he'd like to be a page for us?"

"You can ask him," Ross said. "Thank you…thank you so much."

__________

The following week, Ross sat down with his overwrought mother and finally secured joint custody of Armin. Ross signed on with Irving Lampe for another two years, putting off teaching and investing his earning into a spacious loft, at 850 Sina Court. He and Armin moved in as soon as the loft was completed. 

Armin changed schools, enrolling in a smaller, advanced-learning program. He began working part-time as a page at Irving Lampe Design.

It wasn't long before Mr. Lampe noticed that Armin had a deft hand with materials. One evening, Irving Lampe called Armin into his office.

"Hiya, sunshine," he greeted his young assistant. "How are we doing?"

"Fine. At least, I _hope_ I'm doing a good job."

"You are," Mr. Lampe nodded. "Sit down, Armin."

Armin did so.

"Honey, I'd like to try you out on the shears. As a tie pattern cutter. You need to be patient, and precise. Do you think you can manage that?"

Armin nodded enthusiastically. 

Mr. Lampe took off his glasses, studying Armin thoughtfully. "There's always work to do in the cutting room," he said softly. "There is piecework, and with our scraps, we cut strips to make rag rugs for charity auction. You can come in, any time you like. Cut fabric. Cut ribbon. But…"

He leaned over, looking at Armin carefully, "but honey, maybe you can think about not scratching your hands anymore. Just come in here and hang out with me, any time you want to. How does that sound?"

Armin nodded, speechless, and for the first time saw a way out. "It sounds very, very good." he whispered.

__________ 

November 2014

West Rescue Seven and Ambulance Twelve responded to a call at Braun Fine Cars on the Danforth. It was a Thursday afternoon, just before rush hour when the ambo pulled up outside of the establishment. 

Dispatch had a report of a trapped worker onsite. In the back of his mind, Armin was prepared for a collapsed hydraulic lift, or any number of issues which might occur at a auto garage.

The vehicle bays appeared to be empty. Eventually, the owner's son was located inside of the bathroom, or rather, half inside of it.

Levi stuck his head into the bathroom. "Huh," was his assessment.

"What?" asked Armin from behind Levi.

"Go around, Armin," Levi instructed. "And tell that big lug we're going to need a hacksaw."

Armin walked out of the vehicle bay, collected Mike Zacharius and Ymir Faltskög and walked down an alleyway to the back of the building.

Here, at shoulder level, was a small side window, secured with steel bars. Below it was an air conditioning unit, and trailing down the front of that, a roll of toilet paper.

Sticking out of the window was the head and thick neck of a blond, red-faced man.

Armin approached the window. "Hey there," he said, "we're here to help. Are you hurt?"

"Does it look like I'm hurt?" the large man bellowed, "I'm stuck!"

Armin inched closer. Somehow, and for what reason Armin could only guess at, the man had forced his large head between two of the steel bars protecting the window, and was now stuck, and unable to retract his head.

Armin took a long, slow measured breath. "Okay, then. Can you breathe?"

"Yes," the man bellowed! "Yes, I can breathe! Just get me out!"

Armin nodded to Ymir, who went to fetch the hacksaw and hose.

Armin crossed his arms thoughtfully. "Um…can I ask, how exactly you managed to get your head jammed between the window bars?"

The grimacing figure looked up, as best he could. "I was sitting on the john. The toilet roll was on the window ledge. I must have nudged it, and it fell out of the window and onto the AC unit. So…so I stood up, trying to reach it, and my head was pressing hard against the bars…then…it just popped through!"

"That's too bad," commented Armin, with a curious smile.

"What the hell is going on out there?" Levi snapped from inside the bathroom.

"Nothing half as interesting as what I expect is going on in _there_ ," Armin called back, leaning against the wall. "Levi, meet Reiner Braun. Or I should say, the back half of Reiner Braun."

The heir to Braun Fine Cars grunted, squinting at the paramedic, his eyes widening suddenly. "Armin? Armin Arlert!"

Armin chuckled.

"Oh, and since you're at a loose end in there, Levi," Armin called, "perhaps you'd be good enough to pull up Mr. Braun's pants?"

 


	26. Spilled Milk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Jearmin Week! Thank you so much for reading. Feedback much appreciated! xoxo Peace

Armin stared at his phone, sitting beside him on the unmade bed. Sighed. _Fuck._ "Hello?"

"Hi buddy. It's Ross."

"Hey."

"Sorry I haven't called in a while…how are you managing?"

Armin clamped his iphone between his shoulder and his ear so he could put his socks on.

"I'm..we're… _managing_ fine," he told his brother.

"Well, I wanted…" Ross was drowned out by a long, escalating wail, which sounded like an air-raid siren. Armin winced.

"Okay… _Shush_ …daddy's got it…" and then into the phone, "Sorry, Ethan's teething."

"Awww," Armin said, "poor little guy. Put him on."

Armin heard hiccups and snuffles. "Hi, Bean!" he said brightly into the phone, "Hiya Bean! what's goin' on?"

A fresh, pained howl. More snuffles. Sudden silence.

"I gave him his teething ring," Ross sounded drained. "We keep it in the freezer. So listen, I got your text."

"Yeah. I just thought you should know. This place is yours and Krista's and mine. Not just mine. So yeah, you guys should know."

 _"Okay,"_ Ross's replied cautiously and a little unevenly as he was bouncing and soothing Ethan. "So just…what's happening _exactly_?"

"I texted you what's happening," Armin said flatly, "Jean's moving in."

"Oh. Now, do you mean, _moving in,_ moving in?"

"I mean living here, in the loft, with me."

Ross said nothing.

"What?" Armin snorted impatiently.

"Sorry, hang on," Ross moved the receiver away from his mouth and called out, "Ever? Ever! Ever, can you please…" 

More crying, shushing, microwave beeping, Ross's wife muttering something, Ross saying 'I don't know'.

"Ross!" Armin was losing patience, "Ross, if this is a bad time, let's talk later. I'm gonna be late for work."

"Okay. Listen, Armin. It's just…well, you're taking on kind of _alot_." Ross said softly.

 _"Am I?"_  Strained, annoyed.

"Jean has been in a terrible accident. He has a small child. He can't work. Things are very...up in the air right now. He wouldn't be better off staying with family?"

"I explained this to you, in my text." Armin bit the words off. "The loft has a lift. Everything is on one floor. It's huge. There's lots of room. There's a concierge. I have a washer and dryer. It's the perfect place for Jean to recuperate. And it's stupid to keep two apartments."

"Yes, I _understand_ all of that, buddy. I just know you, and you have a huge heart and I just don't want…"

"I'm not doing this with you right now!" Armin interjected angrily. "I'm getting really, really annoyed quite frankly, with people assuming that I have poor judgement. It's starting to annoy _the fuck_ out of me. I have good judgement. I made trauma team because I have good judgement. It's even written down somewhere…"

"You made trauma team?" Ross sounded genuinely glad, "Armin, that's fantastic."

Armin huffed. Ross's compliment had taken some of the wind out of his sails.

His brother spoke again. "I'd like to meet Jean. You're a couple, and Ever and I would like to meet him."

Silence.

"Is that okay?"

"Yeah. Just please, Ross…just…can you meet him like a normal human being, please? Can you not act like I'm some sort of crystal snowflake that he'd better not smash?"

A long pause. "Ever's pregnant again."

Armin blinked. His nephew, Ethan, was only fourteen months old. "What? No way."

"Way."

"Oh. Oh, Jeez."

Ross sighed, a deep, unending sound like something out of an ancient catacomb.

"Okay," Armin capitulated. "We'll get together. Soon. Like, a Christmas thing or whatever. Here. And Kris, too. Okay?"

"Sure. Let us know what we can bring."

"Is…is Ever okay?"

"She's fine. She says hi."

"'Okay. I need to…I gotta go now, though. Bye, Ross."

"Bye buddy."

Armin disconnected and grumpily bounced his phone onto the bed. _Family._

__________

Jean's arms trembled as he held onto the parallel bars in the physiotherapy clinic. "Krista!" he gasped, "it's so far…"

Krista Arlert walked between the two waist-high railings that supported her client. She tilted her face up, smiling at Jean. "Breathe," she said calmly. "Breathe, and the rest will follow."

Jean inhaled. His ribcage ached. His leg tingled, and he felt a sharp, uneven pain in his ankle, like broken glass. 

Breathe. It was the first thing Krista had said to him. _Breathe._ She was utterly familiar to him, and yet a total stranger. It was as though, in the dead of night, someone had cobbled together Armin, Chris Guthrie, and a delicate garden faerie. She had Chris's faint patchouli-smell. Like Chris, she beat in time to a different drummer. And she shared Armin's lapis blue eyes, exquisite features and charm.

"I hate you," he breathed. 

She laughed. "Straighten up, now." He felt her small, sure hands, guiding him into position. 

"Ow."

"My brother must put up with alot of crying," she mused, her eyes dancing.

"Your brother…" Jean took four slow, excruciating steps on his own, exhaled and sagged against the bars, "puts up with alot of everything."

He smiled, a lopsided, devilish grin.

"You took four steps," Krista was proud of him. "Well done. Again…"

Jean inhaled, as she had taught him; in through his nose. Long, slow exhale…he released pain, stale air and fear. He put one foot in front of the other. 

"So," Krista looked at him, a little coyly. "Do you know Ymir Faltskög well?"

"Huh? Oh, from the fire station? Sure. She hates me."

Krista snickered. "Not possible! Why do you say that?"

"She glares at me. It's because I took the kitten home. Big Mike is nice to me."

"He's lovely."

"Levi hates me."

"No, he doesn't I don't think. Levi just loves Armin."

They had reached the end of the parallel rails. Jean turned slowly, sitting down on the aluminium walker. Hands trembling, he clutched at the towel around his neck, swiping at his face. 

"Yeah. That's the thing, isn't it? People that…that love Armin all seem to find me _lacking_." He reddened. He liked Krista. She was easy. But he hadn't meant to say that.

He looked up at Krista, meeting and holding her gaze. "Why do you think that is?"

"Too many people have tried to rip his wings off," she said. 

"I love him, Krista." Jean said quietly

Krista knelt down, gazing into the shapely hazel eyes. "Well now. I will tell you some stories about Armin," she smirked, "and you will tell me everything you know about Ymir Faltskög."

__________

The coroner was finished examining D'Andrée Bishop. At some point during the autopsy, the coroner had removed the printed tag lettered _'John Doe 621'_ from D'Andrée's small, frozen toe, and replaced it with one which read, _Bishop, D'Andrée / M / 23_.

 D'Andrée Bishop was the latest strangulation victim that fit the profile of Detective Lesley Hastings' case. In actuality, she wasn't the latest. She'd been the first.  Unidentified, she'd lain in frozen silence since early summer, with no one to speak for her, nor to connect the dots. Until now.

"Ain't no John Doe," Detective Lesley Hastings had remarked softly to the slight, ethereal form draped with an aqua sheet. "You just leave it with me."

Night had turned into grey, early December morning. Les Hastings had gone home and now stood looking into the mirror which hung over his dresser, fumbling with his tie.

Chris was speaking to him.

"Dude. You listening to me, Papi?"

Les turned and regarded the mussed, sleepy figure sitting cross-legged in their bed. "No, boy. I am, one-hundred percent, not listening to you."

"I said, Kirschy's coming to practice today." Chris's habitual, sanguine expression changed slightly. He was smiling softly.

"Well, good." Les nodded. He returned his attention to the mirror. The knot managed to make him look as though he'd been attacked. He sighed. Looked at Chris helplessly.

Like a sleepy feline, Chris disengaging himself from the beige duvet, and the camp blanket thrown overtop of it for their geriatric German shepherd. He padded over to the mirror.

"Give it here." Chris undid the necktie. "Every jazz man can tie a snappy knot, y'know. _Respect_ the music, baby. There. Perfect." Chris patted the knot.

"How I look?"

Chris stepped back. Les Hastings looked ill-at-ease in a suit. Despite his long legs, broad shoulders and thin, immaculately-trimmed beard, he wore a suit with a sort of rumpled resentment. It had been exactly that imperfect, frazzled, honest energy that had attracted Chris to the detective.

"Your jacket's got Kojak's hair all over it," Chris noticed. He took the lint roller from the closet and attempted to groom the grey wool blazer. "Can I ask where you're goin'?"

Les Hastings thought of D'Andrée Bishop, small and still and silent. He thought of the plastic evidence bag he'd touched. It contained a flowered jacket, a black skirt, and one gold wedge shoe. One. _Where had the other one gone?_

"I have to make a notification today. I have to go see a family."

Chris stepped around Les, looking into his eyes. "Oh, man. Sorry. Don't worry. You look...respectful. You know, comforting."

Les lifted a long-fingered hand, touching his lover's springy curls, wild each morning before Chris tied them back. Chris's skin was fawn brown. His eyes a clear, light brown under heavy lids. All of him warm, languid.

Les took Chris Guthrie's face into his hands, tilted it and kissed the full lips, softly.

"You feed the dog, please?"

"Yeah."

"Don't forget on me."

"Yeah."

__________

Jean sat in the armchair in the rehearsal space. The chair was a thousand years old, belching mustard-coloured foam through it's gaping rips.

He had his electric bass in his lap, one leg crooked under the other, an orange wool beanie pulled down low over his ears. 

Rocky Joel Lee, Cherry Kirsch's sax player wandered in, playfully dropping a handful of change into Jean's open instrument case. 

"Look at you," Rocky sang, "you look homeless, brother. Go buy yourself a sandwich."

Jean reached up, grasping the large hand that was offered. "Don't laugh, Rock. I _am_ homeless. This is my last month over Charred Squirrel. I'm…I'm moving into Armin's."

"Cherry Kirsch," Rocky flashed a row of even, white teeth. "Settling down?"

Connie Springer, a small, wiry character with a silver buzz cut, was a standout on drums. He hailed from Dublin, Ballymun specifically. Connie was restlessly nosing around the rehearsal space, a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and his sticks in the other.

"There's no fookin' _milk_ ," he announced. He was ignored by Jean, Rocky Joel Lee and Chris Guthrie.

"Lydia will bring it," Rocky said finally, perching wire reading glasses onto his nose and setting up his music stand. "Kirschy's moving in with his young man."

"But I've coffee _now._ Isn't there even bloody coffee-white or something?"

"Lydia's getting milk. And biscuits." Rocky rumbled.

"What kind of biscuits?" Jean looked up with interest, glad to be back on solid food.

Connie opened a cupboard. "What's this then?"

"That's Comet, fool."

"I'll drink it, dude," Chris Guthrie reached for the black coffee Connie was holding.

He swiped the styrofoam cup, taking a gulp.

Connie scowled. "How's that help me?"

"Dude," Chris looked at the diminutive drummer, "I'm saving it from getting cold."

Jean sighed happily. How he'd missed this. Lydia was bringing biscuits. Rocky began warming up on sax, a flurry of golden notes peppering the rehearsal space.

Chris poked him in the arm. "Scales, bro. Let's go."

Jean nodded. His fingers felt fumbly, thick. He ran a few scales, limbering up. Then a few more. Shook his head. He looked up at Chris. 

 _"Fuck,"_ he sighed pointedly.

"Give it time, dude." Chris said. "Don't worry. Gazzer got your back." Lydia's husband, Gary Adandwale, played bass passably enough to get them through the holiday gigs.

Jean looked up. His bandmates all watched him quietly. "We got you," Rocky reached out, gripping Jean's knee in it's threadbare jeans. "We're family."

Jean nodded his head, his eyes swimming with tears.

__________

The white phone stuck to the post in the vehicle bay rang. EMT Levi Ackerman glared at it. They'd had an especially messy outcall, and he was trying to clean up. The ambo's back doors were thrown open, and the antiseptic tang hung in the air, thin and acrid. 

"Quiet!" he hissed at the phone.

A moment later, it shrilled again. Growling, Levi hopped out of the ambo and picked it up. "Metro twelve."

"Yes, good afternoon." A soft, polite voice.

"Good afternoon," Levi responded automatically. 

"Is Armin Arlert available?" the voice asked cordially.

"No, I'm sorry. Is there a message?"

"Oh. This is Doctor Kuroda speaking. Mikasa Kuroda. Has he left for the day?"

Levi frowned.

"Doctor Kuroda. Hello. It's Levi Ackerman."

"Oh. I thought so, Levi. I'm sorry, I was hoping to catch Armin. I wanted to ask if he could pick Sasha up from school today and bring her home. I won't finish work in time."

"I'm sorry, Armin's gone out with his sister."

"Ah. Well, thank you anyway."

"But…"

"Yes?"

"Doctor Kuroda, I am free. I would be able to retrieve Sasha. The school has my details."

"Oh, no." Mikasa demurred, "that would be an imposition. That wasn't my intention."

"I offered." Levi pointed out. "I'm assuming there won't be any small animals involved?"

A light chuckle. "Only Sasha."

__________

He hadn't intended to stay. Indeed, he hadn't intended to set foot inside the stylish apartment.

Mikasa had opened the door, scooping Sasha, her little backpack, and a pipe cleaner reindeer into a hug.

"Levi, come inside!" Sasha had insisted, unable to hide her excitement at having Levi all to herself.

Mikasa had opened the door wide, stepping aside. "Please," she'd said simply.

Levi had entered. He'd expected an echo of Jean and Armin's living space; colourful, chaotic, every piece of furniture strewn with clothing, books or toys.

What greeted him instead was a mellow, orderly space; vanilla walls, dark polished wood, mixed Western and Japanese furnishings. Mikasa's sense of style satisfied his craving for symmetry; smooth beach stones arranged on a shelf, largest-to-smallest. A row of three pruned lemon cyprus trees, in identical square pots. 

The dining area was defined by cushions in chocolate and sea-blue, and a low Japanese table of rich, dark wood. Three places were carefully set, at each was a spotless white napkin. Clearly, Levi was intended to join them.

"We're eating fish," Mikasa informed him matter-of-factly. It wasn't an invitation; rather a calm statement of fact.

__________

Sasha poked at a piece of fish on her plate.

"Nemo," she said quietly to herself, "Owww."

She put her fork down, wrapping both hands around a small plastic glass of almond milk. She looked at Mama and Levi.

Levi had taken his shoes off at the door, and placed them neatly on the mat. Before sitting down at dinner, he'd inclined his head slightly, and looked at Mama.

Levi knelt at the table, very straight, very still. He didn't sprawl at the table, the way Daddy did. He didn't sit cross legged and get his sleeves in the salad bowl, the way Armin did. Levi sat, still and quiet. His hair was glossy and black, like Mama's. To Sasha, the two adults resembled the Siamese cat bookends that held up her picture books on the shelf in her bedroom.

Mama smiled at her and called her 'pichu'. Mama passed dishes to Levi, who nodded. It was very quiet, but nice-quiet, like snow muffling the traffic sounds.

Sasha watched Levi furtively. Whomever had made Levi's face had done a good job. He had a small nose, pointed. His chin was pointed, too. When he spoke, his voice sounded fuzzy, like he'd swallowed a mitten.

'Mmmmm," Sasha made a noise into her milk glass. Mama and Levi were both eating with chopsticks. Sasha had a small fork, and the handle was shaped like an owl. "Hoot," she said softly.

Then, to break the strange, silky silence, she asked out loud, "How was your _day_ , Sasha? Fine thank you Sasha, and yours?"

Mikasa laughed. "Sasha, would you like to start a conversation with our guest?"

Sasha moved her fish around on her plate, losing her nerve a little. She looked at Mikasa. "Like what?"

"Well," Mikasa replied, "you could ask Mr. Ackerman about his interests."

"Who?"

"Levi?" Mikasa looked across the table.

He shrugged. "Sasha calls me Levi."

"You can ask him what he likes to do."

"Now?"

Mikasa nodded her head, gesturing with a slender hand.

Sasha leaned over. "Levi, what do you like to do?"

Levi captured a snowpea. It disappeared into his upside-down-frowny mouth.

"I like to read," he looked at Sasha. "I like the botanical gardens. Do you know what that is?"

Sasha shook her head.

"It's a place to enjoy plants and flowers. Even in winter. They have," he looked at Mikasa, "many species of butterflies as well. They will land on you. And stay there, as long as you don't try to touch them."

__________

CRASH.

Sounds in the dead of night still panicked Armin. He was startled awake by the crash, bolting upright in a fear sweat. Shit! Shit…

Jean wandered at night. Sometimes, he dozed in the bed with Armin. Sometimes, he reclined in Armin's lazyboy with a blanket, to relieve the grinding pain in his shoulder. Armin felt a pang of sadness. It had been devastating, locking the door to the College Street apartment over the Charred Squirrel for the last time. Jean had been melancholy, but Armin had as well. His relationship with Jean had been born in that apartment.

Now, his loft space held towers of cardboard boxes, and the unpacking had been slow and chaotic as his work, Jean's recovery and Sasha's needs all took precedence over unpacking.

It was just a space, Armin had told himself. Just an apartment. Jean's presence here meant whatever the two of them decided it meant, and nothing else.

Still, the moving-in process had been melancholy. Anticlimatic. Armin had fantasized about their first night together as domestic partners. He'd thought it would be lush, heady. His bedcurtains would drift aimlessly, and his bare toes would curl under the sheets. Jean would tease and coax him and he'd grit his teeth, fighting against the horny, helpless moans that Jean pried out of him.

Instead, they'd spent the night fussing with the recliner, setting it up for Jean and then realizing that Jean had lost his phone charger. Jean had sunk down into the chair, grey with pain, and dozed off. Armin had gone and had a bath, blinking numbly at the tiles.

CRASH.

Armin scrambled out of bed, running into the loft's main, open space. 

"Jean?"

Jean stood in the kitchen, propped against the counter, one arm crossed over his chest, and the opposite hand over his mouth. His shoulders shook, tears streaming down his face.

He'd dropped Armin's ceramic milk pitcher, it had shattered and the terra cotta tiles were a sea of milk.

So much milk. Armin gasped. "Oh honey. Don't move. It's okay, you'll cut your feet. Armin ran and grabbed some towels, laving a space in front of Jean. He stood, embracing his shaking lover. "Oh honey, oh, don't…it's just milk…it's okay…"

Jean sobbed, reaching up with his good arm, wrapping his hand into the pale hair and pulling Armin against his chest. "I…can't," he gasped hoarsely, "I…can't hold _onto_ anything. I-I can't _play_ properly. I can't tie Sasha's fuckin' shoes. I…" And Jean bawled hopelessly, sobbing into Armin's hair.

"I wanted this so…so b-bad and now that I'm here it's SO fucked… _so fucked_ …I hate this…I hate being h-helpless…"

Armin stood in the freezing cold milk, holding Jean up, trying to say anything and everything he could think of.

Trembling, Jean grabbed at a paper towel to blow his nose. 

"Come to bed," Armin said quietly. "please, please come to our bed," and then he was crying too, and apologizing. 

He looked up. "Oh, Kleenex, no!" He tried to shoo the kitten away from the lake of milk. He picked Kleenex up, placing her in her carrier.

"I have to clean this up..but let's get you to bed first."

A while later, Armin got back into bed. Gingerly, he spooned against Jean, who lay on his side. Armin tucked a hand underneath Jean's arm, his hand opening against Jean's chest. Jean's heart beat against the flat of his palm. He nudged his face against Jean's neck. Jean made a soft sound.

"Mmm?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Arm."

"Don't say that."

Jean rolled over, slowly, yelping.

Armin had showered off the cat hair and milk. He smelled sweet, and warm. His hair was damp. In the darkness, his eyes watched Jean curiously.

"Come here," Jean whispered. "come close…" and then Armin was in his arms. 

His body had hurt for so long…an endless routine of numbness, and pain, and inflammation, and dehydration. Now, he felt a soft tingling, a stirring low in his belly. He rocked against Armin, very gently.

Armin lifted his head, kissing Jean's eyelids softly, his temples, his cheeks. He stroked Jean's face, fingers tracing it's contours. He pressed against Jean, tentatively.

"You're hard," Jean whispered hoarsely.

"You too," Armin squirmed a little, bent his head and kissed Jean on the mouth. Jean gasped from the sweet shock. "Fuck," he pressed a little harder. "Fuck, baby…"

He reached down, cupping Armin through the cotton undies he had on. His fingers stroked Armin's balls through the soft fabric, causing his blond lover to press his length into Jean's palm. 

Armin's shaking fingers brushed Jean's belly. "Oh god," Armin whispered,  "I don't wanna hurt you…fuck, you're skin's so hot, Jean…so…."

Carefully, Armin squirmed down between Jean's long legs; the injured leg outstretched and the limber one curling around Armin's back. Jean's groin throbbed and he shivered. 

"Armin," it was a soft, needy sound that Armin had never heard before. _"Arminnn…"_ and then the gnawing, grinding ache was enveloped in the sweet, sucking heat of Armin's eager mouth.

Armin sucked him down, slowly, into the silky heat of his throat. Jean's body buzzed, and he arched off the bed, fingers threading into the pale hair, and then fisting. He rolled his hips slowly, his slick erection sliding in and out of the damp pink mouth. In and out, all the way, smooth and soaking wet. 

He moaned, loudly and shamelessly. "Armin… _aaaahhhhh…..ahhhhh…."_

Armin's hand caressed his balls, the other tugging gently on the soft hair that crested his pubic bone. Jean panted, thrusting erratically, feeling his balls twist and kick, knowing that Armin would feel the snap and jerk of his cock against his busy tongue, and then he came hard, pumping and crying out until Armin pulled back a little, murmuring and swallowing enthusiastically.

Armin gasped, popping free and laying his face against Jean's belly. "Okay," he rasped. "Okay baby…."

Jean floated, languid and drowsy. He was home.

 


	27. Blackbird: A Cherry Christmas Part One

The loft at 850 Sina Court was on the third floor of a turn-of-the century factory that had once been home, fittingly, to the Wm. Collins shoe factory. It had a walk-out to a roof terrace, and featured two enormous, round windows. Armin had told Jean that these round windows had originally housed enormous exhaust fans, back when the building had been a shoe factory.

It was a different sort of neighbourhood; an industrial area that had become gentrified. A block away was a coffee shop in an old toy factory that boasted the best lemon tarts in the city. There were textile outlets and hipster restaurants with bicycle racks out front. These were jammed full, even in winter. There was a Japanese kite store which Sasha loved. The neighbourhood was close to the lake. 

Jean missed College Street. He missed the congestion, the fruit market, the streetcars, the Charred Squirrel. He missed the hiss and ping of his ancient radiators and the smell of wet wool mittens drying on them. He missed the ugly mint green bathroom where he and Sasha had made up games about dolphins and space aliens.

He missed walking, with Sasha on his shoulders. He missed dragging the shopping cart full of laundry down the street to the laundromat and feeding popcorn to the pigeons in the alley.

He looked around the loft. The large, open space was fantastic for Sasha. The builders had wisely opted for a hybrid design, creating three enclosed bedrooms, bathrooms and storage as functionally separate rooms. This made the loft spaces viable for families. How strange it had been, having his loved ones and hired movers pack up his belongings and move him here. He and Armin had reconfigured the rooms such they now held a mix of both Armin's furnishings and his own. They'd brought in Jean's brown couch-of-a-thousand stories, and Les and Chris had repositioned it three times. It now described a livingroom area, situated near one of the two beautiful round windows.

"It stays here," Les Hastings had announced after the second move. Armin had crossed his arms, looked pointedly at the tall detective, and tapped a booted toe against the floor. Les glared. Armin didn't flinch. 

"You pushing me, boy."

Armin had cocked his pretty head.

"Fine," Les huffed. "We'll put it by the window."

Armin had smiled sweetly.

Jean would have moved the couch by himself, fifty times, if Armin had wanted him to. He would have stripped and rewaxed the wood floors himself. He would have hung the artwork. He would have cleared out Armin's assorted boxes of jumble and set up a music room. He would have installed a separate thermostat, and lined up the stands for his instruments. Chris had done all of this for him.

When everything was done, the space was perfect.

No, it wasn't College Street he missed.  "What I miss," he said to himself softly, "is _myself_."

He heard the elevator clank to a standstill, then the grind of the steel gate opening. _Sasha, you never, ever put your fingers in the gate. Never. Understand me?_

The front door opened, and Sasha burst into the loft. "Good day, father!"

Jean snorted with laughter, shaking his head. "Good day, daughter," he held his arms open.

"She was watching an old Christmas movie," Mikasa explained, closing the door. 

"Hi, Mikki."

Sasha ran over to her toy shelves and began pulling things out. "No, pichu," Mikasa called to her. "We're not staying, I told you. We're just dropping some things off."

Sasha growled, flattening herself like a starfish against the floor. "I want to stay with daddy."

Mikasa placed some plastic bags onto the table in the open kitchen area. She looked around. "It looks good in here," she nodded. "very welcoming. 

Jean chuckled, "You mean it's messier than your place."

She looked at him warmly. "It's good for you. And Sasha. And Armin."

"Mama, did you see Armin's Christmas tree?"

"Yes, I did."

"It's a white tree. We're _staying_."

Jean looked at Mikasa. "Maybe just for a coffee?"

"Fine. Sasha, don't make a huge mess, please." 

Mikasa filled the kettle with water and plugged it in. She spooned coffee carefully into Armin's bodum. She looked up to see Jean studying her with an odd expression. She looked down to see if she'd spilled something on her sweater. "What?"

"Can I see your scarf?"

It was a marine blue colour, with silver strands spun into it, loosely made, such that it had a rustic, lacy appearance. Haphazard and delicate. "Oh, you like it? I just finished it."

"You made this?"

A light, amused chuckled. "Yes, I made this."

"It's so…so random, though. You're so orderly. It's rustic."

"It is textural. Sometimes it's freeing to try something new."

"Can you teach me?"

"What, to crochet?"

"Crow- _shay!"_ parroted Sasha.

"I want to make something special for Armin. For Christmas."

"Jean," _Jon._ "You are so musical. And very creative. Surely you don't want to crochet?"

"Daddy wants to crow- _shay,_ Mama." Sasha clarified.

Jean fingered the scarf thoughtfully. "Teach me?"

__________

_Woof._

"Kojak, it's just me," Armin called through Les Hastings' back kitchen door. He opened it a crack. 

Kojak barked loudly, growling.

"G-good doggie. Okay…"

Armin opened the door a little wider and set a foot inside the kitchen.

_Woof, woof, woof, woof!!_

"Kojak!" Les called from somewhere inside of their house, _"Siddown!"_

With a whine, the large, grizzled German shepherd plunked himself arthritically onto the kitchen floor. 

Armin exhaled. Lesley appeared in the kitchen, half-moon reading glasses perched on his nose. 

"He won't hurt you," Lesley peered at Armin over his glasses. "not that you'd be much of a meal."

Armin smiled brightly. "Hey. I'm here to see Chris?"

"Chris downstairs. You can use the side door next time. His students go in the side door so they don't ruffle up this ol' man."

Lesley gave Kojak an affectionate scratch.

"Oh. okay. Thanks, Les."

"Hey," Lesley stopped him. "How you doin'?"

Armin nodded. "I'm fine. I…I read about D'Andrée Bishop, in the paper. I don't speak to Jean too much about the case right now….I just want him to concentrate on getting better. What I am, is _angry._ " Armin said it softly, and meant it.

"We're getting closer." Lesley looked into the wide, blue eyes.

"Thank you…"

Armin went downstairs, into Chris Guthrie's studio.

__________

Armin sat on a stool, which spun around. He took in the basement studio, which held a piano, racks of instruments and amplifiers similar to those that Jean housed in the loft's spare room. Posters everywhere…featuring Cherry Kirsch, The Chris Guthrie Project, other musicians and festivals.

Chris had a desk, a Mac computer, whiteboard and a leather chair. On the far wall were tacked colourful progress charts, onto which Chris had printed the names of his younger students, with stickers to track their progress.

Armin looked around, as if understanding something about Chris for the first time.

"Music," Chris told him, sitting down on the piano bench, "is a business, dude. This…" he gestured around, "this is my workplace, man. Welcome!"

Armin nodded. "It's cool," he said, "so, you teach during the day, and then you gig at night?"

"Basically."

"What do you teach?" 

"Well, mostly guitar, piano, voice."

"Y-yeah. Voice…" Armin rubbed his hands together in his lap nervously.

Chris laughed.

"What?" Armin felt self-conscious.

"New _things_ , man. Different competencies. Right now you're feeling all like… _squeee_ …and hey, that's exactly the same way I felt when Jean brought me to see _you_ at work. There you were, man, all wired up with this _bat-belt_ and the fuckin' radio and _jackboots_ and the ambulance and shit and I was just like… _whoa. Fuck."_

Armin laughed. "That's funny."

"Hey," Chris said simply, "it's all good, bro. Now," Chris reached up, shoving stray brown curls back into his cap, "What can I do for you?"

"I…." A flush of red and a nervous giggle, "I want to learn to sing a song, for Jean."

Chris nodded sagely. "Sure thing," he said.

"S-so, do you think you could teach me?"

__________

A few hours later, Armin sat contentedly in the passenger seat of Les Hastings' old Buick, humming to himself. Les had offered him a lift home, after his first lesson. He hummed, and smiled. It was 'Blackbird,' by the Beatles. 

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly…_

"Damn," Les was randomly punching buttons on the radio, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. He looked up. "Oh, it's you!" he laughed. "I wondered what that funny noise was."

Armin looked stricken.

Les laughed. "Lil' songbird."

Armin leaned forward. The seatbelt pushed against his throat, which always made him shudder. 

Les looked at him sidelong.

To distract himself, Armin glanced around the interior of the car. There was a half-chewed milk bone on the floor. And a torn off wrapper. It was yellow, with a bit of blue text showing.

"A wrapper," Armin said absently.

Les said nothing, but his frown deepened.

"Yeah, a wrapper," Armin said hazily, then urgently. "There…there was a wrapper! On the floor of the guy's car…on the…"

Les pulled the car over, turned it off and looked at Armin carefully.

"A wrapper," he prodded gently. 

"On…on the floor of the car. Insulin. An _insulin_ wrapper. And a paper pharmacy bag…" Armin gasped. His hands were shaking and he twisted them together. "I'm so _stupid_ …I remember now. I remember thinking, oh, he's _diabetic_ …that m-made him seem more approachable, which is stupid…"

"An insulin wrapper," Les' voice was low, and calm, his dark eyes sharp. "And what else?"

"D-dark blue floor mats, insulin wrapper…letters uhardt…on the wrapper. U-H-A-R-D-T."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Armin's throat tightened, tears of rage pricking the corners of his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure. I know that wrapper, I know that _brand_ …I…fuck, I'm so sorry I didn't remember!"

Les Hastings pulled his phone out of his pocket. He put his other hand on Armin's shoulder. 

"Can you spare me an hour, Armin? Come in to the station with me and let's run through everything again? You're remembering things now."

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night…take these sunken eyes and learn to see…_

__________

Armin and Levi sat in the vehicle bay, inside the ambulance. The station doors were open, and Mike Zacharius was snow-blowing the driveway. Spumes of glittering snow flew into the air, mesmerizing against the stainless blue sky.

Levi ran a cloth over the dash then sat back, approvingly.

"Aaah."

"I remembered more about the attack." Armin said matter-of-factly. "Little things. Stuff that was inside the car. One letter of the licence plate."

Levi turned to look at him. "You told the police?"

Armin nodded. "I actually remembered inside of Les Hastings' car. He's Chris's boyfriend and he's the detective who is working on the case. There's a task force now, for it. And Toy - " Armin bit off his words. "They're...they're getting closer…"

"Do you feel safer now, living with someone?"

"That's not… _not_ why Jean and I moved in together…but I do love living with him and Sasha when she's there."

"You do alot for them."

"Not this again,' Armin growled, shaped brown eyebrows knitting fiercely. "I don't need _you_ on my case. _Ross_ is already on my case."

Levi barked a chuckle. 

Armin sighed. "Levi…haven't you ever been in love?"

Levi grabbed Armin by the scruff of the neck and attempted to cram the cleaning cloth into his mouth.

"Eeew, get off!!"

Armin spat and snorted. Paused. 

"Levi, Jean and I have decided to have an open-house on Christmas Eve. it's going to be like…to have our families meet. So…so it's family, and close friends. My family wants to meet him, now that we're living together and it's…ugh, I'm afraid it's just going to be _awful._ Will you come?" Armin looked up beseechingly.

"No."

"Oh, but Levi," Armin pressed, "Levi, _please!_ You're my partner. I…I _need_ you there. I need people there that know me as I am now…that I'm capable, and decisive. And strong. Because I am. Strong, I mean."

"No."

Armin's fine features warred between a glare and a pout. "What's Jean ever done to you?" he grumbled. "He's done nothing but be kind, and patient, and supportive of me…ALL of me…and nurture me, and love me!"

"Ross loves you as well. People love you and want only good things for you. _Maybe_ Jean is good for you."

"Thank you!" Armin humphed back into his seat, in exasperated triumph. "Fuck, _finally_ , Levi!"

Armin chewed on a fingrnail. Looked at Levi slyly.

"Doctor Kuroda is coming to the party. She is an academic person and she feels uncomfortable making small talk and attending noisy parties. She's coming to meet everyone _anyway._ She might appreciate someone else there, that hates parties, too. You could hate my party together."

"…….Maybe."

__________

"Ymir," Armin purred, plopping himself onto the couch in the main hall of the fire station. "how'd you like to come to a party at my place?"

Ymir Faltskög tilted down a corner of her newspaper to look at the young paramedic. 

"Yeah," Armin continued, "Jean and I are having a family and friend thing, on Christmas Eve. An open house. He looked across the coffee table. "You too, Zach, what do you say?"

"Sure, we can probably drop in," Mike Zacharius said easily. "Let me check with Nan. Is it kids?"

Armin nodded, his bright smile masking the rising tide of panic he felt at the thought of his family, Jean's family, all of his friends and a ton of kids all thronging into the loft. "Yeah, it's kids."

Ymir was watching him thoughtfully. "Family?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," Armin assured her. "my _sister_ will be there. And she was…well, she was asking about you."

"Lying brat."

"N-no! I'm not lying. Look. I have a text! It says, "H….aaagh!" Armin found himself forced face-down into the couch cushions, one arm pinned behind his back, with Ymir's knee holding him in place as she thumbed through the text.

Ymir read the text, smiling. 

"Sounds great," the large Icelander nodded. "I'd love to!"

__________

December 24th dawned. Jean had managed another decent night's sleep in the bed. He now sported a proper walking cast on his leg, and was able to walk around the apartment. The effort left him sore and tired, but he was pleased. The pain in his torso had finally subsided, and his breath control was returning. He'd sung with Lydia again for the first time, at rehearsal.

And he'd reached for Armin in bed. He'd reached for Armin, holding him close in the dark. He'd nuzzled against the fair hair, soft kisses. He'd pulled Armin against his body with the strength of his good arm, trying to offer, once again, the haven of security that Armin had found there.

Memories of Armin…Armin beneath him or on top of him, breathless, struggling just enough to cause Jean to restrain him, pin him in place, take control. Jean did this, dominated his gentle lover, and it created a safe harbour for Armin's need to surface. And god, when it did, it was beautiful. It was their dance.

Jean stirred, shifting. Armin murmured, sliding on top of him, thighs falling to either side of Jean's hips. He snuggled close. Jean sighed, staring at the ceiling, his cock pressing like an iron rod between them. What would it be like, fucking with an artificial hip? Would he even think about it? Would Armin?

Would it hurt? Would he need to use their safe word, 'star'? He never had, and neither had Armin. They discussed it, often, in breathy, urgent voices…

Armin's cheek was against his, sweet and a little stubbly, if the white-gold fuzz that grew along the fine jaw could be called stubble. Armin's warm thighs squeezed his gently.

"Hurts?"

"No, baby." Jean's hand slid inside the flannel sleep pants Armin wore, cupping one smooth buttock.

"Good," Armin breathed. He turned his head, kissing Jean softly on the mouth. Jean returned the kiss hungrily, squeezing the firm bottom.

"I have to get up," Armin's head shot up. "People will be here soon!"

"Baby, it's six-thirty in the morning…."

Armin sat up, carefully, straddling Jean's groin.

"Does _this_ hurt?"

"Only because my cock is fucking throbbing."

"Good!" A mischevious grin. "Because in about eighteen hours, I'm going to give you your Christmas present!"

Armin reached down, squeezing Jean's erection through his boxer briefs.

"God, you're a tease…"

"Yes, I am."

"You know what naughty teases get for Christmas?"

A giggle. "Punished!"

 


	28. Blackbird: A Cherry Christmas Part Two

"Hah!…Slippery…" Armin chuckled to himself.

Warm breath against his ear. "What're you doing?"

He squirmed, Jean's long body pinning him against the kitchen counter. A firm arm wrapped around his torso. Soft lips nibbled at the tendon just beneath his earlobe.

"Well, I…I'm _trying_ to peel this mango."

"Slippery, huh?" the soft rasp of Jean's tongue against his earlobe. Armin's eyes slid shut. Lips and tongue, nuzzling against the soft flesh just beneath his hairline. 

Armin twisted in Jean's arms.

"Oh," Jean offered him a sweet, crooked smile. "Hello," He bent his head, covering Armin's lips softly with his own.

"I'm _trying_ to make…" Armin's words melted into his lover's mouth, _"Ngghh…."_

Jean kissed him slowly, deeply, his tongue silencing Armin's nervous chatter. 

With a growl, Jean scooped Armin up by his thighs, perching him on the lip of the sink. Wincing, he braced himself on the counter, his hands on either side of Armin. 

He raised his head, tapered hazel eyes seeking Armin's.

"Hurts still?" Armin asked softly. 

"Nowhere near as bad. Nowhere near. Except…" he pulled Armin against his hips, sucking in a needy breath.

"I know," Armin whispered. "Me, too…"

__________

"Alicia, please!" Rocky Joel Lee called up the hall stairs. 

His teenage daughter drifted down the stairway, thumbing her phone. 

"Please help your sister with her coat."

"I don't need help!" chirped Nadine.

"Oh, no." Alicia eyed the huge, steel pot of food sitting in the hallway. "I'm not sitting in the car with _that_. It smells."

"Simone!" Rocky called, trying to rally his wife, "Are you ready, my dear?"

"Dad, I'm not joking. Do you have to, like…." Alicia gestured toward the pot, "it's _gross._ Most people bring, like, _chips_ or something…"

"It's a party,' Rocky Joel laughed. "for Kirschy. We all make the party. We're family."

"It's going to be _so_ boring," Alicia assessed.

"Simone, please!"

__________

Ethan Arlert sat in his highchair, yowling. His mother, Ever, tried gently to coax cold applesauce into the whimpering toddler.

"Oh, sweetie…" she looked up as Ross came in from starting the car.

"He wouldn't nap," Ever said tersely.

"He'll be fine."

"I know Armin said kids were fine, but he's going to yowl the place down. We're going to a swish party in the design district and he'll be screeching…"

Ross bent down, kissing his tired, pregnant wife on the cheek. He took the applesauce. Ethan watched him tearfully.

"Here, Bean…just two bites…" he said gently. The small mouth opened.

"Ever, you know you don't have to come, babe. I know it's alot."

"I want to," she said, a tad less grumpily. "We….well, we've hardly seen Armin. We haven't been there for him at all, lately…"

Ethan smacked his chops, tiny fist crinkling his bib. "Mum-min," he said.

"Yeah, buddy," Ross cooed. "We're gonna go see Mum-min!"

__________

Armin had been decorating for two days. He'd made lists. Thankfully, the open house was a pot-luck affair, so he hadn't had to cook. Well, not much, anyway. Jean had helped out as best he could, which had mostly resulted in the two of them snapping at one another. Armin was nervous, and his anxiety mounted as the hour of the guests' arrival drew near.

He stood in the centre of the loft, eyeing his handiwork critically. "Fuck, Jean…does it look stupid?"

"God, no…"

The loft had been strung with yards of fairy lights, which twinkled merrily. A buffet had been set up on the long island which divided the kitchen area from the great room.

Armin rubbed his hands together, fretfully.

"Oh, Arm…" Jean chuckled. "don't be anxious."

"I…..am," Armin breathed. "I am…. _so, so_ anxious! Just…gah!"

Armin took in a breath. Had he taken on too much? Jean's parents, whom he liked immensely, would be here shortly with Sasha and Mikasa. 

"Armin!" Jean's voice recalled him. "Come here," he said gently.

Armin walked over to the recliner, allowing Jean to pull him down onto his lap.

"Baby, you'll see. People will come. They'll make their own party. It'll be awesome. All we need to do is open the door. Trust me."

"I do trust you..."

"I'm so, so sorry you had to do all this by yourself. But it looks gorgeous. Mom and dad will be here in a minute. Mom will sort out the kitchen. Why don't you go and pick something to wear?"

__________

Armin sat on the small bench, at his dressing table. Stared into the open closet. Stared into the shoe room. Bent over, holding his head in his hands.

"Armin, are you sick?" A small, alarmed voice.

Armin's head shot up. Sasha stood in the doorway. She had on a pouffy tulle skirt, black and twinkly. She wore a little white blouse, and Mikasa had braided her hair and coiled the braid on top of her head.

Armin laughed out loud, with delight. "Oh, Sash! Look at you!"

His face suffused with joy, remembering the day at Kew Beach that she'd come running toward him, paper fairy wings and jelly shoes. "You look so grown up, honey."

She eyed him gravely. "Armin, are you going to wear your jammies?"

"No," he shook his head, holding out his hands. "I don't know what to put on, Sash."

Sasha strode into the room. Looked at Armin. Peered into the closet. Looked at Armin again.

She stepped into the closet, looking at the pants and shorts, skirts and dresses. Leggings and stretchy tights. Sweaters and shirts. After a few moments, she reached up, yanking an item off it's hanger. She walked over and threw it on the bed. Armin picked it up.

"My kilt?"

"It's a skirt, Armin." Sasha informed him. 

"And this," She plopped a buttery soft, cream cashmere sweater down beside the kilt. 

"And these," Some black leggings.

She disappeared into the shoe room, emerging with a cheeky pair of black, lace-up boots. "And boots."

Armin smiled brightly. "This is my Campbell tartan," he told Sasha, picking up the kilt. "That's Ever's name. Everdene Campbell. She's the lady that married my brother, Ross. They have a little baby, Ethan."

Sasha regarding the kilt thoughtfully.

"Last time I wore it was at their wedding. I stood beside my brother."

He picked up the cashmere sweater. It was an Irving Lampe design. "Why'd you choose this one, Sash?" Armin asked her.

"You hugged me in that sweater when I had an earache," Sasha said matter-of-factly.

Jean looked up as Armin emerged some time later. Smiled hugely. Armin had forgone his customary, impeccably-matched outfit. He'd cobbled together a cute, punky ensemble consisting of a kilt, cashmere sweater and black boots. The front half of his hair was scooped up into a clip, and the pale mane was strewn with plastic barrettes, added by Sasha.

"I picked Armin's Christmas clothes, Oma!" Sasha told Irma proudly.

Irma stepped forward, hugging Armin tightly. "I see," she nodded. "Armin looks nice."

Hannes gave Armin a hug as well. "I hope it's okay I parked on the street?"

__________

It was odd, thought Ross, pulling into the guest parking area at 850 Sina Court. This had been his and Armin's home. He'd found himself, at the age of twenty-eight, a guardian to a fourteen-year-old. He'd managed Armin's transition to a new school. He'd attended counselling with Armin. He'd painted the loft interior in bright, quirky colours. He'd bought Armin little gifts; coloured scarves, pastel socks. Bags that looked more like handbags than knapsacks. Anything…anything to show Armin he was loved, and accepted.

As Krista and Armin had grown up, Ross has sold them each a share of the loft. An investment, he'd explained. The property's value would increase.

Ever had come to live there when Armin was seventeen. Ever, like Ross, was a model. She had stark, photogenic features, level grey eyes, and wavy, syrup-brown hair. Striking, not pretty, people had said. She was tall; the same height as Ross.

Ever was grouchy, honest, and loving. She didn't try to worm her way into Armin's affections. She didn't ask him hollow, pointless questions. _How's school So, do you have a girlfriend? What do you want to be when you grow up?_

Rather, it had been a stream of simple exchanges, which blended into a weekend, and then into weeks, and then years. 

_Can you help me with the groceries, please?_

_This is how you grate celery root._

_You like Audrey Hepburn, don't you?_

_A paramedic? What courses will you need to take?_

Ross had proposed to Ever at the kitchen table. She'd said that she needed time to think about it. Ross was devastated. He'd sat in the round window in the loft living room, motionless, for hours. Ever had come back with a duffel bag, stuffed with her remaining belongings from her parents' house and nodded her head.

They'd all cried.

Ross and Ever were married in 2009. They'd bought a house in Durham, just outside of the city. Armin had stood beside his brother, wearing the Campbell tartan. Irving Lampe had styled the wedding party. It has been… _fabulous._

__________

Ross knocked on the door, which, again, felt odd. But it wasn't his home anymore; it was Armin's, and now, apparently _Jean's_ as well. 

Armin opened the door. 

"Hi, buddy!"

"C-come in!" Armin was flushed, excited, nervous. Ever and Ross, carrying Ethan, made their way inside. Armin gasped. 

"Oh, Ever!"

Ever placed a hand atop her distended belly. 

"You're…oh!" Armin's eyes widened.

"Ross told you," she said.

"Yeah, but I didn't realize you were… _so_ pregnant! You're huge!"

"Seven and a half months," Ever sighed. Then, a curious smile. "You're wearing my kilt." 

"Yes."

Ross listened with half an ear. He looked into the living room. Walked forward.

A young man, tall and broad-shouldered was rising with some effort from a leather recliner. He wore slacks, a white shirt and a tie. He leaned on a cane.

God, he was so young. 

Ross Arlert didn't know what he'd been expecting. A musician, that drove a cab, and had a four-year-old. A stranger, who had picked Armin up in his cab. Who was sharing a home, _his home_ , with Armin, his little brother.

Jean was clean shaven, tidy. Urban. Handsome, if Ross was honest. And struggling, white-knuckled, to hold himself upright, look into Ross Arlert's eyes, and respectfully extend his right hand.

"Ross, I'm Jean. Jean Kirschstein."

Ross grasped the hand, reaching automatically out with his left, to help Jean ease himself back down into the chair.

"I…It's great to meet you," Ross said. "I'm - we're…" he looked around for Ever, but she'd been whisked into the kitchen, placed into a chair at the table and given some tea by a striking Asian woman. "uh, that's my wife, Everdene. We're so sorry about your accident."

"Thanks," Jean smiled. "I'm just so glad you're here…"

"Daddy," a little vision in black tulle pulled impatiently on Jean's sleeve. "and now say _me_ …" she whispered.

Jean chuckled. "Mr. Arlert, this is my daughter Sasha."

Large soft eyes looked up at Ross, then darted back to Jean, "Daddy, say _the whole thing_ …"

"This is Sasha Kuroda-Kirschstein," Jean elaborated, laughing.

"Hello," Sasha held out her hand.

Ross was enchanted. "Hi Sasha," he said. A small figure at his side squawked. "This," he presented his son, "is Ethan."

Sasha considered the cherubic little tot. "I have toys," she offered. 

__________

"Dad, it _reeks._ " Alicia Lee said flatly. She was jammed into the last seat of her father's Caravan, with the stew pot. She tapped out a message on her phone, saying as much to her friend.

"Merry Christmas!" Rocky Joel Lee replied joyfully. Alicia rolled her eyes. Her dad was so _loud_ , always singing, or laughing, or teasing. He teased everyone. 

"It's gonna just be me and a bunch of little kids," Alicia grumbled. "do we have to stay there all night?"

"Alicia," said her mother quietly.

Rocky Joel Lee had taught music composition at Humber College for twelve years. Before that, he'd been a fixture on the Toronto jazz and blues scene. He'd played live shows, jamming at the Horseshoe and the El Mocambo. He'd spent time in the studio, recording for radio and television. None of it had prepared him for Jean Kirschstein and Chris Guthrie. They were disruptive, crazy, and brilliant. Professor Lee had spent the initial few weeks of first semester trying to figure out how to get rid of them.

It was impossible. They were the earliest arrivals each morning, and the last students to leave each evening. Chris, whom he assumed functioned through a hemp-filtered haze, was technically brilliant. He could sight-read music, and had an exquisite ear. But Jean. Jean was earnest, passionate, seeking. This kid was a poet, a writer, a lyricist. An artist. 

Professor Lee had nudged Chris with a toe here and there. Musically, Chris excelled. He hadn't needed the type of direction that was on Rocky Joel Lee's first-year curriculum. Chris's trouble had come later. Thankfully, so had Les Hastings.

But Jean. Jean was exhaustive. He wanted…he needed to know _why_. About everything. He was sometimes scrambled. But Kirschy was kind, and authentic.

Rocky Joel had had his mind made up before sitting down with Simone. Nonetheless, he'd pitched it to her, as though nothing had been decided.

"My dear, I'm thinking long and hard about a new band."

Simone, being both intuitive and attuned to her family, had nodded. "Not every night, Joel. Some nights only. It's unfair to the girls."

"Of course, Simone. Of course, baby."

Thus, Cherry Kirsch had gained a seasoned, veteran sax player in the summer of 2009. Rocky Joel Lee had tried to get his graduated students, Chris and Jean, to stop calling him 'professor'. He'd eventually given up.

"Why are we stopping?" Alicia wanted to know.

"We picking up Connie," Rocky Joel replied. 

"Great," the teen sighed. Her phone rang. "Hey," she said into it. "No. No, I can't. I have to go to this party with my parents. No, I have to. It's like…this thing to help out a guy in my dad's band. No. He's nice. _No!! Oh my god,_ _he's way to old for me and he's gay._ No, it's cool. We're going to liven things up a little."

In the front seat of the Caravan, Rocky Joel Lee smiled.

__________

Armin had gotten it all wrong. He'd thought he'd have had time to greet each arrival, make a few introductions, offer drinks, and stow coats. Instead, people began to arrive all at once, laughing and chatting, divesting themselves, wandering into the kitchen and the living room, embracing Jean, embracing him, giving them wine and rye and chocolates and even flowers.

He found himself scurrying around, much like Bilbo Baggins under an onslaught of dwarves. Under his breath he muttered, frantically trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

His sister, Krista had turned up, bearing an enormous basket of treats and beaming like sunshine. She'd waltzed into the kitchen, bending to kiss Ever's belly and talk to the baby. She greeted Mikasa, whom she'd met through her work as Jean's physiotherapist. She'd then gone over to see Jean, adorning his head with a set of felt reindeer antlers. "Blitzen!" she'd giggled. 

"Did you know," she beamed at her brother Ross, "that Jean is my patient? And the first time I met him…"

"No!" Jean gasped helplessly, "Krista, that won't make a good first impression!"

"But it _did_ , though!" Krista teased.

She'd snuck up behind her younger brother, whispering in his ear, "So? Is everyone here yet?"

"I-I-I…I honestly have no idea…"

The crew from the fire station showed up; Mike and Nan Zacharius with kids in tow, Levi Ackerman, and Ymir Faltskög.

Krista was sitting on the floor entertaining Ethan, her little nephew, Sasha, and another little girl. Sasha was filling Krista's hands with plastic bumblebees. "I can count to sixty-seven…."

"Bees. Mum-min," said Ethan.

Krista looked up, and into the entranceway. Ymir had arrived, her tall frame silhouetted in the light from the open door. She was taller than Krista remembered. She carried a tray of little golden rolls, which she handed off to Irma, Jean's mother. Mike held out a hand for her overcoat. She removed it, revealing a black sheath dress underneath. Black, sheer stockings, and svelte flats. Her hair was pulled back in a simple silver clasp. Tall, elegant, and utterly foreboding.

Krista glared at Armin and hissed, "You said casual dress, you little _goof!"_

"What?" Armin's matching blue eyes widened. He looked at Krista, sitting on the floor in a tiny pair of faded jeans, oversize Christmas sweater and with two braids in her hair. "You look so cute!"

"I look like I'm _eight!"_

This caught Sasha's curiosity. "How old are you?" she asked.

__________

Ross watched his brother. He saw Armin go into the kitchen, where Jean's mother, Irma was standing, chatting to a tall black woman, a singer. Or maybe a pianist? Armin fluttered around like a little canary, one hand overtop of the other, scratching nervously. Then, without pausing in her conversation, Irma reached out and took Armin's hand firmly into her own. She whispered something into his ear. Armin nodded. Irma held Armin's hand, continuing her conversation. She must have praised Armin then, because he flushed, smiling.

She didn't let go of his hand. _You stay here with me for a moment._

Irma's arm went around Armin's shoulders. _You're okay now._

Ross watched his brother relax, kissing Irma on the cheek. He smiled wistfully.

__________

Levi Ackerman had never seen Armin's loft so full of people. People chatting, children screeching, music playing. The kitchen smelled appealing. Ah, there was Armin.

Levi entered, nodding to the occupants. Armin turned, breathless, his blue eyes dancing. Levi noted the cheeky kilt, and and the colourful hairclips.

"Oh, Levi!" Armin exclaimed. "I'm so glad you're here!" he threw his arms around Levi, who grunted.

"Levi, my partner…please meet Irma and Hannes Kirschstein. Jean's parents."

Hannes stood, moving beside his wife. His studied Levi for a moment, his stoic face registering an odd expression. Then, his eyes filled with tears, and he clasped Levi's politely-offered hand in his right, covering with his left. 

Finally, Hannes nodded and spoke two words: "Thank you…."

Levi was perplexed for a  moment. Jean's father, weeping and thanking him...

_Oh. Of course._

"No thanks are necessary," he said quietly. "On the contrary," he glanced at Mikasa, who sat at the table, conversing with…yes, it was Armin's sister-in-law, Ever…"it's been my pleasure to have become acquainted with your family."

Hannes gestured to him. "Please, sit."

Levi did.

__________

Krista had Ethan on her hip, and Sasha, her new little shadow, at her side when she opened the loft door.

"Hi!" she said brightly to the two men standing in the hallway. "C'mon in!"

A second later, she heard a loud cry from Jean, and whirled around to see if he'd hurt himself.

"Oh! Oh…." Jean struggled to stand, weeping. _"No way…no way, man…."_

Marco Bodt beamed. "Surprise! Merry Christmas, Bass!"

The dark man in the overcoat entered the room, hugging Jean, who was crying. 

The second man, who had sun-kissed brown skin and a very blond beard, looked about in utter confusion.

Krista spoke to him. "Hi there," she smiled.

"Ja," he nodded "Hello!"

Krista grinned. "I'm Krista," she enunciated. "Krista…."

"Ja," the blond man took her hand. "Thomas. Hello."

"Uh-oh," Krista giggled. "Mrs. Kirsch!" she called into the kitchen, _"Mrs. Kirsch, a German guy!"_

__________

Armin leaned against the fridge and exhaled. Okay. Marco and Thomas had made it here safely. A great surprise for Jean, and one less thing to fret about. Now there was only…oh, God. Chris was on his way. With his guitar. To accompany Armin, who was going to sing… _oh, oh…._

He gazed at his apartment full of people. 

Quietly, he slipped out of the kitchen.

__________

Ross Arlert got up off the couch.

He walked down the hall, and into the bedroom. This room had a round window as well. And….yes, the latch was open. Smiling to himself, he popped the window open, placed a foot on the radiator, and let himself out, onto the roof.

Armin sat there, gazing at the stars, a ratty old blanket wrapped around his small form.

Ross sat down.

"Does Jean know about your bolt-hole yet?"

A little chuckle. "Nope."

"You okay, buddy?"

"Yeah. I'm good. It's just…it's alot. I just wanted to see the stars for a minute. Ross?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to sing a song later."

"Are you?" Ross put an arm around his brother's shoulders.

"Yeah. For Jean. A song, for Christmas. I'm so scared."

Ross tightened his arm protectively around Armin's shoulders.

"It'll be okay, Arm. He'll love it…no matter what. You…you don't need to be scared anymore."

__________ 

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these sunken eyes and learn to see_

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to be free._

 

 


	29. Blackbird: A Cherry Christmas Part Three

Armin Arlert walked back into his living room to see big Rocky Joel Lee hoisting an enormous pot over his head and bellowing, "Stew on the 'Cue!" before heading outside onto the terrace. 

Rocky fired up Jean's gas grill and set the pot onto it carefully. "Aaah, _yes!"_

"Brilliant, mate!" Connie Springer joined him outside, holding his hands over the warmth.

Alicia Lee rolled her eyes. She'd just made friends with Krista Arlert, who was an adult, but a very cool one. 

"Oh my _God,_ " she groaned. "Excuse my father. He's so embarrassing…"

"Stew on the 'Cue!" echoed Gazzer Adandwale, emerging from Armin's kitchen, carrying most of Armin's good white soup bowls.

Connie came back inside, snagging a handful of spoons. Once outside, he plunked them down onto the picnic bench except for two, which he held in his hands, tapping out a rhythm against his thigh. A song broke out, in a language Armin had never heard before. It could have been Gaelic, or Bantu, for all he knew.

Someone else dragged his two ice tubs outside, filling them with snow and bottled beer. This was followed by a coffee table.

"Oh, shit," Armin bleated. _"Shoot…."_

Jean chuckled, took his lover's hand and kissed it.

Then, a gorgeous sound from the kitchen. Lydia Adandwale's voice, raised in song.

_Hallelujah..._

She was joined immediately by Chris Guthrie, who was making off with Armin's tabasco sauce, _Hallelujah!_

And from the recliner in the middle of the room, Jean: _Hallelujah!_

Cherry Kirsch sang, their voices rising in harmony. The song was spontaneous, random beautiful. 

Ever Arlert sat, astonished, a cranberry puff suspended halfway to her lips. 

Mikasa looked up from the table, saw Sasha standing at her father's elbow, singing, her eyes shining.

She reached across the table, wordlessly taking Levi Ackerman's hand in her own.

_Hallelujah._

__________

Armin motioned Sasha over. He had her Mini-Kids fishing rod, and was tying a bunch of mistletoe onto the end. He grinned.

Sasha and Nadine Lee began to giggle.

"Now," Armin put the rod into Sasha's hands. "Be gentle. Take turns. Play _nicely,_ or I'll take it away…"

Krista had managed to get a reprieve from playing on the floor with the kids. She sauntered over to the window, where Mike Zacharius was regaling a small group with the story of Kleenex. Ymir leaned against the window, holding a glass of wine. Krista joined them, feeling incredibly short and very underdressed, but she smiled pleasantly.

A roar of approval was heard outdoors, where a merry cooking party had ensued. Chris Guthrie, in the middle of the throng, held aloft a silver mickey. "One-five-one!" someone crowed.

"Rum," Jean smiled at Ross. "One-hundred and fifty-one _proof_ rum." He shrugged ruefully. "I Can't. Antibiotics."

"Oh," said Ross, looking outside, intrigued.

Nadine and Sasha, bearing aloft their kissing rod, crept out onto the terrace.

"Uh-uh," Rocky Joel said loudly, shaking his head. " _Boots,_ Nadine. Alicia! Boots for Nadine, or no way."

Nadine put on her own boots. Sasha put on someone else's. They were yellow. They went outside, giggling. Uncle Chris was a good test subject. Snickering, they dangled the mistletoe.

"Uncle Chriiis…" Sasha sing-songed. Chris looked up, spying the sprig of green dangling overhead. 

"Kiss!" Sasha chirped.

Chris shook his head, smiling. He leaned over, and smooched Uncle Les.

The two little girls looked at each other. "It works," Nadine breathed.

They walked over, tapping Rocky Joel with the mistletoe. He roared with laughter. "Who I kiss?"

He reached down, plucking Nadine up. "How about you? You'll do!"

Nadine screeched.

__________

Krista had managed to negotiate a seat on the brown couch, beside Ymir. Ymir had long hands, and there was an s-shaped scar on the back of her arm. Levi, Armin, Mike and Ymir were telling Krista about life at West Central Fire Station. Krista was all ears. And she was enjoying the faint, subtle scent that Ymir wore.

"So," she asked, "does everyone have, like, a set job? Or does it switch around?"

"Well," her brother said, "I drive the ambo. The vast majority of the time."

"And I also drive," Ymir nodded.

"You drive the pumper engine?" Krista turned her head to look at Ymir.

Ymir nodded. Then, Nan Zacharius began to giggle.

From behind the couch, two mischievous sprites dangled an orange plastic fishing rod over Krista's head. "Krista!" Sasha squealed, "Kiss!"

Krista's face flamed as red as her sweater. Ymir Faltskög placed a warm hand on her neck, nudging her forward gently, and kissed her small pink mouth tenderly. Smiled. She set down her wineglass, reached into her handbag and pulled out two dollar coins, handing one to each of the girls.

"There you go," she said, one dark eyebrow quirked in amusement. "You need to come back and see Krista at least one more time."

Krista blinked, wondering if, and when, her heart would stop pounding in her ears.

__________

More joyful sounds from outside; Rocky Joel Lee was singing 'It's a Wonderful World.'

Ross found himself looking out onto the terrace, his curiosity mounting.

"Go," Ever nudged him. "Go on outside."

He looked at his wife. He looked for Ethan, but the chubby tot was being bounced on Armin's lap and gnawing on a piece of apple.

He got up.

__________

Ross Arlert stepped outside. Armin had strung lights all along the fence, and the terrace glowed. Laughter sent cold puffs of breath into the air.

He imagined there might be a note from the condo board pushed through Armin's letter slot in the morning, but for now, he really didn't care.

Unobtrusively, he approached the group standing around the steaming steel pot.

"Now, who is THIS MAN?" boomed a voice. The voice belonged to the tall, grinning man with dreadlocks, who was brandishing the largest soup ladle that Armin owned.

The group turned to look at Ross, standing in the snow in his beige Irving Lampe peacoat.

"I-I-I..."

The large man laughed, a deep, mirthful sound. _"Listen_ to him, he must be related to Armin!"

"Ross!" Ross managed, moving in closer. "Ross Arlert. Armin's brother."

The man with the ladle held out a hand, "Rocky Joel Lee. _Merry Christmas!"_

"Here," Rocky Joel dipped the ladle into the pot, spooning stew into a bowl. Taking the mickey from a young man with springy brown hair - Chris? - Rocky Joel floated some rum on top of the savoury stew. He handed it to Ross.

"Thanks…what is it?"

 _"Stew on the 'Cue!"_ chorused everyone, laughing. Ross moved in beside Rocky. 

 "Dominican stew," Rocky told him. "Delicious. Try it."

Ross sipped the heady broth. He looked into the apartment. Armin was walking across the living room, tripping as he tried to disengage himself from some tinsel. Ross smiled.

"You raise him up?" Rocky Joel asked him.

"Yeah," Ross said softly, nodding. "I tried to. I was in teacher's college."

"Ah, a teacher," rumbled Rocky Lee, nodding.

"Well...I was supposed to be. I sell educational software now, actually." He pointed inside. "That's Everdene. My wife. That's Ethan."

"A teacher, professor! Like you, dude." curly Chris remarked.

"And like you _too,_ Mister Guthrie."

"Oh, yeah." 

Chris shook Ross's hand. "Professor Lee taught Jean and me, at Humber. Now he jams with Cherry Kirsch. So yeah, there's me, I play guitar mostly. Rocky Lee on sax and horns," he gestured to another man, "This is Gary Adandwale. His wife is Lydia, she sings and plays piano. She's inside, there."

"Gazzer!"

Emboldened by the warmth of the stew and the company, Ross asked a tall, bearded man standing beside Chris: "And what do you play?"

Rocky Lee chuckled. "This man has no music. No music at all. He's the po-lice. _"_

Les Hastings shook his head and held out a hand. "I've got music," he grumbled at Rocky. "What's wrong with you?"

"And me, arsehole!" Connie piped up.

Rocky Lee stepped aside to reveal a diminutive, wiry man Irishman with a silver buzzcut and lively green eyes. 

"This is the _Little Drummer Boy!"_ Rocky bellowed with laughter, which resulted in an immediate rendition of the familiar carol.

Ross chewed happily on a piece of goat meat and took a swig out of Chris's flask.

So, this was Jean Kirschstein's family.

__________

As the night deepened, Armin lit a few candles. Hannes and Irma had bid the company goodbye, and left to spend the night at Jean's Aunt Lisl's house. A few others took their leave, toting tired children home to bed.

Ross and Ever had elected to stay. Ethan had passed out on Sasha's bed, clutching his rubber giraffe.

About twenty friends and family remained. Chris Guthrie, pleasantly sated with stew and craft beer, opened his guitar case.

"Oh, God…" whispered Armin.

"Armin," Chris looked up. "In the music room is Kirschy's guitar. The cherry red acoustic one. Can you grab it, dude?"

"Dude," Jean shook his head.

"Yeah, man." said Chris. "Don't worry, everyone's drunk."

Jean sighed, accepting the instrument with a kiss from Armin. He tuned up. As the snow fell, he and Chris played softly. Jean's fingers loosened up, and as the music flowed, he smiled.

Armin's family had stayed to hang out, Alicia Lee noted. They seemed to really like the music. They smiled, and sang along. She took a few pictures on her phone. Maybe her dad wasn't _totally_ annoying.

Chris strummed the opening chords for The Pogues  _A Fairytale in New York._ "Kirschy," he nodded. Jean sang with Chris, but his eyes were on Armin, disheveled and bright-eyed and smiling.

_You were handsome_

_You were pretty_

_Queen of New York City_

_When the band finished playing_

_They howled out for more_

_Sinatra was swinging,_

_All the drunks they were singing_

_We kissed on a corner_

_Then danced through the night…_

Ever leaned her head contentedly against Ross's shoulder. Ross watched as Sasha shoved a lumpy parcel onto Jean's knee.

"Daddy," she looked at him pointedly.

Jean cleared his throat.

"Um…yeah. So, Sasha and I…and my family…my really _large_ family, would like to raise a toast to Armin's family, for coming here…well, coming _home_ , to celebrate with us. Cheers!" Jean raised his glass of juice.

"And…well, if it wasn't for one very, very special person in my life…" he stopped, suddenly unable to get the words out. "Armin, you…"

"Oh, here we go…" chuckled Chris as Jean swiped at his eyes.

Sensing that the adults were taking far too long, Sasha plucked the parcel off of Jean's lap and brought it to Armin.

"Armin, Daddy made this _crow-shay."_

Perplexed, Armin opened the package. A long, loosely-crocheted scarf, whisper-pink, tumbled out. "Oh…."

"He made it," Sasha emphasized. "Mama helped."

Jean rose slowly, approached Armin and picked up one end of the scarf. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I tried. I love you, angel."

He wound the scarf carefully around Armin's shoulders, kissing him.

Armin twirled around, delighted. "It's…" he looked at Ross, and Krista. _"Fabulous!"_ declared all three siblings together.

__________

"Alright, little dude," Chris called to Armin.

"Oh…Oh, no. I-I don't think I…"

"C'mere," Chris encouraged. Jean looked on quizzically.

Armin sat beside Chris. He began to inhale and exhale.

_Oh, no…there's no way…he's not getting ready to…._

Armin looked steadily at Chris. Chris was counting him in.

Armin flushed. Opened his mouth. Closed it. "Oops, no, wait, _wait_ …" he wailed, hiding his face in his hands. "Start over,"

"Take your time," Chris told him.

And began to strum _Blackbird._ Armin sang. Shakily at first, fists balled into his kilt, and then with a little more confidence. His voice was unschooled and raw and bell-sweet and Jean's heart melted.

As the song ended, Armin nodded, beaming…."Chris, go again!" 

And he sang again. And this time, everyone else sang, too.

__________

"Well, that was something," Levi Ackerman said at the door. 

Armin was sorry to see Levi go. "Are you sure you can't stay a little longer?"

"I need to be somewhere. But thank you. It was…I had a good time."

Levi shrugged into his coat. 

Armin's lips curled in a soft smile. "Merry Christmas, Levi. And Happy Hanukkah, for last week."

Levi Ackerman took Armin by the shoulders, pulled him close and kissed the smooth forehead.

"Thank you," Armin said softly.

Levi took a taxi down to Gerrard Street. The veteran's hospital was there, across from the Armoury. Even at this late hour, lights burned within, chasing away the fearful darkness. Levi hung his coat and entered the recreation room. A few men played chess. Others watched the television. _A Christmas Carol._ A tall figure handed out mulled cider and donated cookies, from a plastic tray.

"Ah!" Zoe Hanji greeted Levi brightly. "There you are, you little _stump._ Thought you'd been run over by a reindeer!"

"Nope," Levi smiled. "Merry Christmas, Shitty Glasses."

_________

"You want a lift?"

_Oh good Lord, did Ymir just ask me if I wanted a lift?_

Krista scrambled into her coat. "Um…which way you going?"

Ymir smirked. "C'mon."

Krista Arlert said her goodbyes. She squished her little brother. She admonished Jean to get enough rest, and went out into the night.

Ymir Faltskög drove an Audi sports car. The bucket seat threatened to swallow Krista. Ymir pulled away from the curb.

"So, you live on the Danforth," Ymir said. How about a little drive along the Expressway, then I'll double back at Coxwell?"

"Sure!" Krista said. She was thinking about the three-speed bicycle with fenders, that she pedalled to work at the clinic.

"Do you drive?" Ymir asked her.

"Well, yeah, but in the city I normally just ride my bike or take transit. I can't drive standard, tho."

Ymir regarded her. She picked up Krista's hand, wrapping it around the ball of the gear shift and covering it with her own.

The Audi jumped out onto the Expressway. Ymir shifted gears, Krista's hand beneath her own.

"Whoa!" gasped Krista. "Oh, _jeez!"_

Ymir chuckled. Krista sounded like her little brother. 

Ymir shifted again, her hand wrapped firmly around Krista's small fist. She accelerated. Beneath Krista, the Audi's powerful engine throbbed.

Ymir drove, smoothly, expertly, along the Expressway. On their left, the downtown core loomed. On their right, the silent cold of Lake Ontario. 

Krista's chest rose and fell, her cheeks flushing with excitement. She tried to think of something clever to say to Ymir, but her mind was a sweet, delicious blur, flying along the Expressway.

Ymir pulled up outside of the house that contained Krista's small apartment.

"I have a shift now," Ymir told her. "but if you have any of those rubber-cement health muffins in your basket, it would be great to see you later."

She leaned over, unbuckling Krista's seatbelt. She brushed Krista's lips with her own, telling her that she was incredible. Sweet and funny and gorgeous.

Krista stood on the sidewalk, holding her empty treat basket, watching as the Audi pulled away from the curb.

"Wow," she said to the still, clear cold Christmas morning. Then, she chuckled. "What a party!"

__________

"One brandy," Levi and Armin had concurred, "should be fine with his meds."

Jean sat in the oversize chair beside the bed he shared with Armin. He'd undone his tie, and unbuttoned the collar of his Oxford shirt. He sipped his Christmas brandy, staring down at the twinkling lights of the factory district.

The loft hadn't been entirely destroyed. Friends and family had assisted in the clean-up. Incredibly, none of of the other tenants had complained. Jean supposed that some of them might be away, for Christmas.

Christmas. It was Christmas Day. Three a.m. He shut his eyes, smiling softly. He wondered if anyone had taken a video of Armin singing. Flushed, nervous, looking intently at Chris, who coached him along. Armin sang. _For him._ He shook his head. He wondered if Armin had liked his gift. Next to the magic of the song, it seemed lacklustre.

"Arm," he called into the bathroom, "did you like it?'

No sound. Then: "Do you mean this?"

Jean turned his head. She stood at the end of the bed, watching him shyly. She'd put on soft, knitted thigh socks, in the same whisper pink colour as her new scarf. The scarf, which he'd made, was draped around her neck, one end skimming down the front of her torso. Aside from her socks and scarf, she was utterly naked. Through one of the crocheted holes, a stiff, pink nipple peeked. She'd put her hair up into a loose bun, lined her eyes a soft grey, and painted on a pale, wintry, shimmery mouth.

"I do like it. _I love it_. It's soft. Want to touch it?"

She stepped toward him, the wardrobe mirror catching her reflection from the back. The knitted scarf, the soft swoop of her spine, the enticing roundness of her naked bottom, the sweet socks pulled to the tops of her thighs.

"Oh…God, Armin."

She stopped, looking down at him. He watched her in the mirror; watched his hand trail up her thigh, tickle the crease of her bottom, fingers opening to cup the sweet flesh of her cheek, denting it.

"I'm not expecting you to…" she whispered, "I just need you to know… _to see_ …how very much I want you."

"My doll…my little doll…"

He held out his hand. "This chair is wide. Can you put your knees on either side of my hips?"

Delicately, she straddled his lap.

He lifted his snifter, offering it to her. "Cheers, baby. You were so wonderful…your song was _wonderful_ … _you sang!"_

"I sang…" a triumphant little smile.

He nuzzled her cheek. "Is this pretty mouth for me?"

She nodded. 

"Look first," he urged gently. "Turn your head."

Armin looked backwards, gasping at the sight of her reflection: her creamy skin, naked buttocks and upswept hair as she straddled Jean, who looked sharp and masculine in his slacks and collared shirt.

"Do you like that?" he whispered, lips against the shell of her ear. "Do you like how you look?"

The legs and feet inside the pink thigh socks.

"Yes," she gasped.

"Do you like being naughty and naked and straddling my lap, while I have my clothes on?"

"Y-yes…" it looked so erotic, her sweet face craning around to look, her back arched wantonly as she pressed herself against the hot bulge in Jean's trousers. She watched Jean's fingers brush her pale, round buttocks, felt the gooseflesh rise where he touched her.

 _"Ohhh,"_ she looked back at him.

He touched a finger to her shimmery bottom lip. "Can I have this now?"

Armin nodded, leaning forward and parting her soft lips. Jean pulled her close, too hard, a burning pain in his side as he tasted her mouth, pushing the tip of his tongue inside, moaning, dragging shimmer down to her pointed chin.

He was shaking, his groin tightening and his fist gripping the pretty scarf. Gasping he pulled back, hands softening, finding her face. Breathing deeply, he traced the sweet features, searching the huge, heady blue eyes.

"I don't wanna hurt you…" he laughed ruefully, "or me…"

His fingertips found the hard little bead of her nipple, thumb lashing softly over it, slow, unhurried.

She watched his hands on her body, touching her through the gorgeously strange scarf he'd made, like pink seaweed. Watched the long fingers trail down her taut belly, tickle the fine, honey hair and graze her sex with the lightest touch.

She leaned forward, touching her lips to his with equal delicacy; butterfly-light, tiny kisses. Unashamed, she began to pant softly against his mouth as his fingertips teased the head of her sex, and the pleasure mounted. Slick, light strokes as her body twitched, dampening his thumb with fluid when he rubbed her slit softly. Then, he stopped.

Her heart sang in her ears and she shivered, her skin on fire. She pulled back, to find him smiling at her.

"Wait now…" he whispered.

She made soft sounds, urgent little breaths which quirked into whimpers.

Hands shaking, he lifted the brandy glass, taking a sip. Held it to her lips. It burned going down her throat.

She raised herself off of his lap, easing her knees down until they touched the carpet. Nuzzled her cheek against the dampened bulge, angrily trying to force it's way through Jean's trousers. Her fingers thumbed the button open. Slowly, carefully, she eased Jean's pants down as he used his arms to lift himself off of his chair. Discarded the pants on the carpet.

Her heart beat slowed. She placed her face against the heat of his erection, mounding the front of his black boxer briefs. The cotton was soft. Tasted coarse against her tongue when she licked, tracing the contour of his cock head through the fabric. 

His thighs trembled and he whined softly. Armin stuck her tongue through the slit in the boxers, licking the hot silk of his skin, wetting it. A salty tang.

She tugged the boxers down gently. Jean's cock bobbed against his belly, rigid and needy. She looked up at him, his jaw set against crying out, a sheen of sweat beading his fine brow.

The strawberry head of his cock disappeared between her lips and she suckled him slowly, huge eyes blinking up at him, little tongue scraping the twist of flesh on the underside of his cock.

Her teasing forced a cry from his throat. She sat back on her heels. "Wait now," she said softly.

She rose and lay on the bed, belly down, face turned so she could watch him. Squirted some glisten into her palm, from a tube.

"Let me," she rasped, "let me make myself ready for you." 

She parted her thighs and arched her back, offering him a view of her swollen flesh. With light fingers, she stroked glisten between her cheeks, stroking up and down, palming her balls.

Jean moaned raggedly. His chest felt light. His eyes flicked from the erotic vision on the bed, to her reverse in the mirror.

Armin writhed, two busy fingers swirling, scissoring delicately, the sensation driving pleasure up her spine and causing her belly to clench.

"Oh," short little yelps, "oh, oh, oh…."

"Armin," it was a deep growl. Jean's amber eyes burned. "Please. _Please…."_

Trembling, she slid off of the bed, climbing onto his lap and into his arms.

"Sweet girl," he tried to keep still, but his hips jerked against her, his fingers finding the slick little pucker, opening her as he pushed inside of her without hesitation.

It burned, but she was so engorged that her lithe body seared with pleasure, squirming on top of him and crying out; gorgeous, helpless non-words.

"O-okay?" she gasped. "Jean?"

"Uh-huh…" 

Their pace slowed, bodies shuddering. She began to rock, slowly, exquisitely. She slid against him, their skin hot, sweat-damp.

"Armin…baby, it feels too good… _too good…"_

She rocked some more, his fullness pushing against the sweet spot inside of her body. Rocking, rocking....

"Oh..." she whimpered, "Watch me…watch me _come on you…"_

She gave in; pulses of hot, pearly seed glazing her cock, soaking her belly, his lap.

Jean's world spun. He gripped her hips and fucked her hard, raw cries bouncing off the loft walls, coming into her beautiful little body.

They clung together in Jean's chair; gasping, overwrought.

He'd needed to stand then, crying out, his body hurting. She'd wrapped him in a blanket, holding him close as pins and needles coursed through his legs.

He laid his cheek on top of her head, watching the snow swirl in the pre-dawn grey of the factory district. 

He closed his eyes against the soft hair, breathing in the magic of Armin's warmth.

"Merry Christmas," she said softly. "I love you."

_Blackbird, fly._

 


	30. EMT Spells Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter touches on depression and anxiety. Although this is a work of fiction, these conditions are very real. If you, or someone you love is suffering...reach out. Help is there. Hugs.

Jean burrowed deep into the bedding, screwing his eyes shut against the busy morning thrumming outside his window. The factory district was waking, under a pigeon-grey sky. Late January. The bed was warm, delicious. His limbs felt heavy and syrupy. Maybe he'd stay here, right here, all day. He smiled into the darkness behind his eyelids. The world inside of his head was so, _so_ much easier than the world outside these days.

His mind drifted…he imagined himself playing, in a jazz club. Not Brighton. Something from Toronto's storied past. Old school. The Bohemian Embassy. Yeah. He's onstage, but allows himself to fade back…his bass thrumming out a foundation for Chris's guitar. For Rocky Joel's sax. For Lydia's voice. He fades back, with a quirked smile, because it's _his_ arrangements, _his_ scores, his original music that Cherry Kirsch plays.

Or, no. No. He's being interviewed. By a reporter from the Voice. In the lounge, at the Westbury Hotel, in front of all the framed snapshots of jazz greats. He's talking about arranging music. On a timeless standard, like ' _Georgia'_. And how arranging is _simply a case of…of what…oh yeah…accentuating the beauty and structure of a piece…_.

No…no, no, no. He's being interviewed at Pride. Yeah. Fuck, yeah! Of course he is! And Chris is doing that thing where he actually opens his eyes _all the way_ , to talk passionately about issues. Issues that matter…And…

_"Daddy!"_

Jean groaned.

"Daddy, Kleenex is eating a kleenex!"

One eye opened, just wide enough to admit a slice of morning. His life rushed in. His nagging aches. The mound of insurance papers waiting to be filled out. The bills stacked up because he and Armin have yet to sit with Mikki and cobble together a new budget. The jobs bookmarked on the Monster jobsite, that he's too afraid to apply for. And he's resentful, and angry and _so, so, so tired._

_Oh, Armin. Armin. What the hell have you taken on? You were brave and gorgeous and savvy when I met you, and you spent last night cleaning up cat puke with the phone jammed into your ear, troubleshooting with the internet provider and picking Cheerios off your socks. Armin, this lifestyle is going to get old for you, fast._

Jean thinks about Armin picking up and leaving his chaos. Glass breaks inside his chest and the anxiety he's been body-surfing becomes panic.

He kicks off the duvet, sitting up.

"Sasha?"

She comes into the room, carrying the kitten, who is ravaging a piece of tissue.

"No, Kleenex. _No."_

__________

Jean took Sasha to school, on the streetcar. She chattered happily about mammoths and shoelaces and…

 _This would have been a good morning to swing by Bregman's in his Metro cab_ , thought Jean. _Crusty bagels, morning coffee. Turn on the roof light. Cruise east, pick up a few fares in the banking district. Listen to CBC Radio. Argue with the commentary._

_I miss my cab. I'm a cabbie. I'm a taxi driver. I was a taxi driver._

"…Daddy, it's Valentine's soon…"

_I drove the cab. I wrote the music. I did the arranging._

Did.

The cab was a twisted metal corpse, and the music wouldn't come. All he heard inside of his soul was...white noise.

He dropped his daughter off at school, went back home to the loft, and went back to bed.

_Fuck this. Fuck it._

__________

Three-thirty. Jean sat on the couch in his boxers and button-down shirt. Dress socks. He stared at his bass, in it's black case, by the door. Blinked at the half-composed set list on the coffee table. _He was so tired._

Door buzzer.

He sighed. Rose and pressed the button.

"Dude."

_"Dude."_

He unlatched the door and went and sat back down on the couch.

Chris Guthrie let himself in, smiling serenely. Took a long look at Jean, and tilted his head.

"Aw. Bro. We gotta jam. You're not even dressed!"

"Yeah." 

"C'mon, man. Seniors' Centre. It's old people day. Little dinner jazz…"

"I haven't played this set in months, Chris."

Chris chuckled. "Kirschy. _Kirschy._ They don' care. They just, you know, they like us. They like _you_. It doesn't matter."

"What doesn't matter? That I still sound like _crap?_ Missing notes and shit?"

"Your socks are two different colours. One's blue. The other one's black."

"This is crap."

"Get your pants on."

Jean rolled off the couch and padded into the bedroom. Chris frowned, his heavy-lidded eyes keen with worry.

_Kirschy, man._

__________

 "Do it.'

"No. No. Uh-uh." Armin shook his head, flashing a dimpled smile at his friend, Garnet Jones. It had been a busy night in the ER, Armin and Levi having appeared three times in seven hours.

Garnet leaned on the nurses' station, arms crossed on the laminate, grinning at Armin.

"C'mon, get your nose pierced."

"Pffft. No!"

"Jesus, babycakes. It's so, so little and cute. It's _so_ cute! It's begging for a little stud."

"No!" Armin snickered. 

"Why?"

Levi Ackerman dropped a clipboard onto the counter with a sharp clack. Glared at Armin. 

"Levi," Armin chortled, "I'm gonna get my nose pierced!"

"How about," Levi purred, "some lip staples instead?"

Armin glanced up. Sucked in a breath. A tall, willowy figure stood in the hallway.

"I'll be back," he said, walking forward.

She saw him approach. Smiled tentatively, pinning him with keen, dark eyes.

"Hi Toyeh," Armin said softly. "How…how are you feeling?"

"Armin," She shifted, pulling at her purse-strap a little. "Hey. I'm here for a follow up. Which way's the fracture clinic, again?"

Armin reached out, touching her forearm. "Spiral fracture. I remember. Just go down this hall, turn right, and go through the doors."

"Okay, then." Toyeh nodded, brown eyes measuring him carefully. "Thank you…for everything."

Toyeh leaned forward, brushing Armin's cheek. "Ciao. See you, Armin."

Toyeh walked down the hall, rummaging in her purse. Armin watched her go, thoughtful.

 __________

_Armin. Armin. That was your name. You said it to me softly, looking up at me through lashes the colour of raw honey._

The sandy-haired man slouched in a moulded plastic chair in the hospital ER, cap pulled low, watching Armin. Armin and Toyeh had walked right past him as he sat there, invisible, simply one of the coughing, shifting, fretful denizens of the ER waiting room.

_You're wearing a blue paramedic's uniform, a quilted jacket and a blue toque. A leather belt, a radio. Black boots. No silk today, no softness. Nothing like the delicate little treat you were, that warm summer night._

Armin's radio crackled. He pressed a button, responding. Beckoned to a dark, lethal-looking man at the nurses' station.

_I had gone to see Toyeh. Toyeh is my friend. That night at Sharq Tanq, the bouncer went crazy, smashing up the place. I made it out of the back door, crossed the street, and watched the scene unfold. I watched it all. With great interest._

_I watched you arrive, watched you clean the blood off of Toyeh. I recognized your angel-pretty face immediately. What luck. The world is such a strange place. I've been missing you so badly. Thinking of you constantly. and then…there you were._

_What luck._

_We never got the chance to finish our conversation, did we?_

__________

Armin tried to be quiet when he came home, which was nearly impossible. Jean had left a burglar-trap in the hallway consisting of the recycling bin, sneakers, an amplifier and his jacket.

"Christ," Armin muttered. Glanced at the clock. It was eleven-thirty. He padded into the ensuite, peeling off his uniform, which now smelled of saline and sweat. He washed, and shrugged into one of Jean's t-shirts. Examined himself in the mirror. Touched the place where a little stud might go, if he got his nose pierced. Chuckled softly.

He crawled into bed, Jean's long limbs unfolding to scoop him close. Armin's eyes slid shut with pleasure and he sighed. Nothing had _ever_ felt this good.

"Baby," he nuzzled the sharp line of his lover's jaw. Stubbly.

Jean hugged him tightly.

__________

 Jean sat at the breakfast table the next morning, willing his eyes to open fully. Around him, Sasha and Armin fluttered and buzzed. He glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. 

"Daddy," Sasha pinched his cheek. 

"Ow."

"Sasha, _hair."_ Armin snaked out an arm, grabbed his small charge and held her still, two ladybug barrettes sticking out of his mouth. He scooped her hair into two auburn pigtails, adroitly fastening them while unplugging the kettle.

"I don't want two pigtails today. I want _one."_

"Sasha," Jean grumbled, "it's fine like that."

"No!"

 _"Urgh,"_ said Armin. He unclipped the pigtails, scooping her locks into a high ponytail. "Okay. But it stays like this."

"Call your mom," Armin reminded Jean. "she called last night. And Lydia called, too."

Jean put his elbows on the table, slowly scrubbing his hands over his face and up into his sandy brush of hair.

"Yes, dear."

"Or...don't," Armin said curtly. 

"Sorry."

"You'll get Sash after school?"

"'Kay," Jean nodded. "I see Krista today. Then rehearsal, but it's just a run-through of the same old shit."

Sasha ran into the hall to find her boots. Armin reached for Jean, pulling his lover's head against his belly. "Be patient. Everything will get sorted out. You're so much better than you were."

When they left, Jean stared at his phone for a half-hour, summoning up the energy he needed to call Irma. He dialed. 

"Hello?"

"Hey mom," he said, his voice sounding lemon-lime bright. "How are you?"

"Ja. Fine. Dad has a cold. How're you?"

"Great!" Jean stared at Armin's Coca-Cola fridge, zoning out, hearing his own voice rattle off five or six appealing anecdotes to his mother, from a disembodied distance. He prattled on about Sasha, about Cherry Kirsch, about ice skating. He invented an appointment, rang off cheerfully and tapped the phone.

Feeling utterly depleted, he crawled onto the couch and curled up into a ball.

__________

Armin got home about six-thirty. The loft was dark. He frowned. "Hello? Anybody home?"

No answer. He wandered into the livingroom. The TV was on, cartoons casting a lurid wash onto the walls. Sasha sat on the floor, a pizza box beside her.

Jean lay on the couch, eyes closed, unmoving.

"Hey," Armin said softly, flicking on a lamp. "What's going on, sweetie?"

"Pizza," Sasha said simply. She'd put her slice on the lid of the box, tiny crescent bitemarks taken out of it.

"Daddy's sleeping," Sasha informed Armin. "He's too tired to eat his."

Jean stirred, murmured.

"I see," said Armin. "no milk?"

"No milk."

Armin flipped on the kitchen light, finding Sasha's dino cup and pouring some milk. He got a plate, sliced up an apple and some green pepper straws.

"Come here," he said softly. "Let's sit at the table."

Sasha did as she was told, lifting the cup to her face and peering seriously at Armin over it.

"It's okay, honey." he said.

Jean had awoken, and was sitting up.

"Hey," he murmured.

"If you needed me," Armin said, stooping to pluck up the trail of clothes that had been left on the living room floor, "you could've just called me."

Nothing.

"Armin," Jean said vacantly, "sometimes parents give their kids pizza for dinner, and plunk them in front of the TV. It fucking happens."

"I know that."

"So why are you being so snippy?"

"I just don't get it," Armin looked at him. "I'm not pissed, I'm worried. I know that something's going on with you…"

"What I am," Jean said dully, "is surrounded by a bunch of high-functioning intellectuals who think they know what's best for me."

"Okay," Armin said in a soft, measured voice. He went back into the kitchen. "Sash," he said, I'm going to do the wash and I need a helper. Will you help me?"

"Yeah!"

Sasha loved helping Armin. She learned new things from Armin all the time. Like about the elevator with the brass gate. Never stick your fingers in the gate. Sometimes, the elevator got stuck. Once, it bounced so hard that Armin had spilled some oranges out of the top of the grocery bag, and Sasha had laughed. When the elevator got stuck, Armin pushed a lever and got it moving again.

Armin let her scoop the soap into the washing machine. He asked her to put all of the blue shirts and blue pants into a pile. They smelled like the nurse's office at school.

"E-M-T," Sasha read the letters on the back of Armin's shirts. "E-M-T," she repeated. "I know what that is."

"What, honey?"

"EMT spells empty."

Armin smiled then, a very sad little smile. "That's good sorting, Sash."

__________

Later, he and Jean watched some TV. Jean had been robotically quiet. 

"I'm gonna have a bath and shave," he told Armin, getting up off the couch and disappearing into the ensuite.

Armin sat on the brown couch of a thousand stories, staring at the news. He heard the water running into the bath. It occurred to him that Jean might still want a bit of assistance. He walked down the hallway. Heard a strange sound. Then another. Sobs.

He gasped, reaching for the knob and finding the bathroom door locked. 

"Shit," he whispered. "Jean?"

"Not now, Arm." 

Armin leaned against the door, sliding down it until he was sitting on the floor. He pressed an ear to the door. Jean had turned the water off. His weeping echoed, his breath hitching.

"Jean," Armin put the flat of his hand against the bathroom door, heart hammering. _Just like Ross had. Just like..._ "You need to let me in, honey."

"Y-you don't understand this..."

"I…" and hot tears were filling Armin's throat, "Yes, I do…I do. I'm not leaving, baby. You can tell me all about it, just please l-let me in…please..."

_Click._

Armin melted with relief.

He turned the knob. Jean had gotten back into the huge soaker tub. He sat there, hazel eyes gone pale and vacant.

Trembling, Armin pulled off his own t-shirt and pants. "It's okay," he whispered. "It's okay…"

He lowered himself gingerly into the hot water, facing Jean, drew his knees up to his chest, and rested his chin on one knee.

Jean stared at the water, at Armin, at nothing.

Armin picked up the washcloth, drawing it gently across Jean's arms and shoulders. The water dripping back into the tub broke the silence, like bright pennies.

Armin waited.

"I feel," Jean looked at him, his tear-streaked face taut with pain, "as though I'm moving so slowly...like, through glue…or syrup. It's like…like everything is so _hard_. Dressing Sasha is hard. Opening the mail is hard. Going to the store. Things have gotten easier and easier physically, but…but harder and harder to contemplate doing. To actually, _think_ about doing."

He turned his head a little, resting his cheek on his own shoulder.

"I have no stability. I can't provide for Sasha, I can't contribute to our household reliably. I can't...Arm, I just want everyone to leave me alone. I just want to be _left alone._ I'm…." he shivered, "I'm overwhelmed. I'm doing nothing, and yet I'm _fucking overwhelmed."_

Armin nodded, listening.

Jean raised his head, looking at Armin. "You…you didn't sign up for this."

"Yeah, I did." Armin smiled, reaching out, touching Jean's face softly. "You just _think_ you're surrounded by high-functioning people. We aren't. Chris would fly apart without you. Mikasa would never smile, without you. Rocky Joel wouldn't be able to do what he loves. And I…" he moved closer, sampling Jean's cheek very gently with his lips, "I would be _heartbroken_ without you. So…" A kiss, warm and delicate, "so we'll talk to Krista, and Dr. Hanji, and we'll find a way through it."

Jean closed his eyes, accepting Armin's kisses; warm, sweet little gifts, pulling him back toward the sunlight.

 


	31. Dewey in Seventy-Two

Brighton was snoozy on Sunday afternoons. Over the bar, the TV screens flickered, showing curling, World Juniors Hockey, and horse racing from Saratoga. Their drone was broken by the clack and snap from the billiard tables in the rear of the jazz bar.

A few local fixtures festooned the bar, nursing pints of bitter and spiked coffees against the sudden, deep chill that gripped the city of Toronto. 

Randy leaned impassively on his bar, reading the paper. He looked up as the door banged open, an icy gust propelling the slight figure that entered.

"Hey, Armin."

"Hi, Randy," Armin nodded.

"Shift today?"

"Soon." Armin shrugged out of his blue task jacket, hopping up onto what was now _his_ stool, on the near side of the bar, second from the left. The far left corner was, of course, Wedge the bookie's office.

The bookmaker looked up over his racing form at Armin.

"Hiya, Ugly."

"Hiya, Wedge."

Wedge sighed, pulled out a billfold and thumbed off a twenty. 

Armin pinched it delicately. "Thank you, Wedge," he smiled sweetly, "Dinner money."

Randy worked his towel across the bar, stopping in front of Armin.

"Can they do me a peameal bacon on a bun, please? And black coffee? And whatever Wedge wants." Armin ordered.

Randy nodded.

Armin settled himself, elbows on the bar, watching the Saratoga races. He chuckled to himself. A year ago, he'd have been at home, alone, eating a frozen dinner and sewing lace trim onto a camisole, wondering if he'd ever have the guts to wear it. 

And now here he was, on _his_ stool at Brighton, sitting beside the local oddsmaker, ordering a quick hot sandwich before shift, trying to pick ponies for the four o'clock race at Saratoga. _Life,_ he concluded, _was full of surprises._

He pushed the twenty dollar bill back at Wedge. "Gimli's Gamble and Satin Doll, one-two."

Wedge took out his phone, thumbing in a note. 

"How's Kirschy?"

Armin looked up, hands curled around the coffee Randy had brought him. "Coming along," he said, "I suppose."

"Jean Kirschstein's a fine bass player." said Wedge.

Armin slurped his coffee. 

"Jean Kirschstein, he gotta get on his feet." pronounced Wedge. "I seen lots of 'em come and go."

"Yeah?"

"Boy, I've been here since…" the bookie trailed off, tapping something into his phone, taking out a pencil and marking his notepad, "since nine-teen seventy-two."

Armin looked pensively at Wedge. "Were you a musician?"

"Let's see. Seventy-two. Massey Hall. Dizzy Gillespie. Charles Mingus. Toronto was a great jazz town. Dewey Gordon…"

Armin frowned. "Dewey Gordon?"

Wedge snorted. "Only the greatest bassist there was, kid. Dewey Gordon played Brighton in seventy-two. The Dewey Gordon Trio was recorded at Massey Hall a year later. Jazz Summit, and that was in seventy-three."

Armin's sandwich arrived. He ignored it.

Wedge's phone chimed as he took in another wager.

"I played clarinet," Wedge nodded. "You ask Rocky Lee. Rocky Joel Lee come in here with his dad, in seventy-seven. Rocky Lee's dad…Jerome Lee. Jerome Lee, now he also played with Dewey Gordon."

Armin nodded, trying to follow the jumbled reminiscence.

Wedge shifted his bulk on his stool, turning to look at the wall beside him. There, in frames, hung pictures from Brighton's storied past; bop groups, big bands, Dixieland players. Toronto's jazz elite, all but forgotten.

"Look here," Wedge plucked a framed, black and white photo off the wall and handed it to Armin. This action revealed a surprisingly bright scarlet rectangle of painted brick. 

"Huh," mused Armin, "I thought this wall was brown! I guess it was red, once."

"This," Wedge tapped the photo of a group of musicians, "This is Dewey right here. Dewey Gordon. And Dewey, well, he was the finest stand-up bassist I ever played with. He was somethin'. And Jean Kirschstein, that young man's on his way to being just as fine."

Armin took the photo, fingers brushing tentatively over the faces, scooping a trail of fine dust, which he absently wiped on his thigh.

"Look," he said. "Look at the suits. Just like Cherry Kirsch wear sometimes. And look at the hair!"

"Dewey Gordon. Everybody know who Dewey was."

"Is he still…I mean, did he die?"

"Not as I know. Old musicians don't die. We just fade."

Armin's expression softened. Wedge sipped at his beer, nodding.

"Wedge? What's your name?"

Wedge tapped the picture. "That's me there. See the clarinet?"

"Yeah…"

"Ambrose Martin. That's me."

"Armin Arlert," said Armin.

"Yeah, Ugly, I know."

__________

Jean had met Krista Arlert, his physiotherapist, at a boxing gym on Jarvis street. The walls were oxidized green, and the overhead lights were fluorescent. The boxing gym had none of the manufactured pep-and-smile of a franchised fitness gym. None of the purple spandex. No field of pristine blue industrial carpeting. No elliptical machines that made users look as though they were being manipulated by some satantic puppet-master. The boxing gym had a stale, low-key, grinding sense of purpose. Jean loved it immediately.

He stood before Krista, as whole and intact as he was ever going to be. His hip, a snakework of soft scars. Striations on his calf, and shin. But he'd returned from the jellied immobility of a waking coma and now he was ready.

"Boxing?" he'd asked her.

Krista had nodded sagely. "You need to tap back into yourself. You need to keep that shoulder working, keep the scar tissue at bay. And we're going to work on your hands. You won't be beating the shit out of anyone. But we'll make you fast again. Agile. Ready to…well, to play music the way you need to play it."

Jean had chuckled. "I wonder what Armin'll think of this."

"Armin," said Krista soberly, "throws a very nasty punch when cornered."

She'd worked him out. Afterward, she'd had him do fine motor exercises with his hands, fingers and wrists. She'd taken the subway with him as far as Ossington, and then had gotten off, blowing him a kiss.

"Aren't you a lucky guy," an older lady on the subway train had remarked.

"Yup, I am," Jean had smiled. The rain beneath his skin was starting to let up.

He sat, sometime later, on the floor in the middle of the loft living room, still in his sweats, staring at his phone. He picked it up, thumbing through the directory. He was blessed. He was cared about by a wide range of individuals. A passionate, intuitive lover. Annoying but loving parents. His daughter, and her mother. His bandmates. His chosen family.

What Jean needed at that moment, however, was someone with a little distance, and alot of common sense. He dialed the number for Ross Arlert.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hi. Ross?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Jean. Jean Kirschstein."

"Jean…is everything okay?" 

"Yeah," Jean wavered. "Yeah, it is. It's fine. We're all fine. I'm calling about…"

"Armin?"

"No. Oh, no, actually. I was wondering if you might be able to swing a play date? Would you like to bring Ethan by? Sasha is really taken with him. She's very patient with littler kids. I wouldn't mind a chat. I…uh…I heard that you're pretty good at figuring stuff out. Life stuff."

Ross had come over, bearing Ethan and an enormous canvas bag stuffed with playthings. And his tablet. While Sasha and Ethan played on the patchwork of foam safety-squares that delineated the play area in the living space, Ross sat on Jean's brown couch and drank coffee, and listened. 

Jean was earnest, unvarnished and direct.

"I think I've lost my compass," he began. "I happen to be fairly skilled at a number of things that don't seem to be fusing together into, like…a _sustainable_ livelihood. I drove a cab, I crashed the cab, and nobody that cares about me is interested in having me _drive_ a cab, ever again."

"You didn't crash your cab, Jean."

"Thank you. But. It's still a no-go. I loved it, but it's not for me anymore, not for my kid, nor for Armin."

Jean unfolded himself from the couch, went into the kitchen and produced two yogurt pops. He coaxed Ethan into Sasha's old highchair, snapped on his bib, and gave him a yogurt pop. Sasha slid onto a chair beside the toddler, feeling enormously important.

"I," she told her Daddy, "am _babysitting_ Ethan."

Ross watched the younger father contemplatively.

"Want a cookie?" Jean asked.

"Yeah!" said Sasha.

"No honey, you have yogurt. I was talking to Ross."

"Oh..uh…okay." _Oh...okay._ The Arlerts' catchphrase. It signalled that they were letting you in.

Jean pulled out a packet of fig newtons and set them on the coffee table.

"I dropped out of Humber, my third year. Stupid. Bummed around for a year. Mikki and I had Sasha - that's too long of a story for the moment, but I will tell it to you. I kept jamming regularly with Chris, and eventually Lydia. Then, I went back and finished my degree. Rocky Joel…remember him from the party? The big, loud, Dominican dude? He was my prof at school. He ended up actually taking a sabbatical to jam with us. And decided to stay. Connie, we picked up at a pub. He's a punk from Ballymun. We're an odd group, but hey, as a quintet, _Cherry Kirsch_ works."

Ross nodded, chewing thoughtfully on a fig newton. Ethan had a ring of melted frozen yogurt forming around his little mouth. He smacked his chops.

"We're jobbing musicians. We're not rock stars. We sight-read music. We play jazz, mostly. I write music. I arrange music. I write lyrics. I take a standard….like, I dunno… _Stardust_ , and create an arrangement. For any given number of instruments. We play as a band, but we also do solo projects. Chris and I play everywhere. Retirement residences, weddings, clubs, festivals. Whatever. No one's ever going to know who we are. But," Jean stopped, smiling softly, "but we're good at what we do."

"Okay," Ross nodded. "So…it sounds like you know what you do best. That's a start."

"Except that it's not _enough._ Armin and Mikasa both have stable incomes. Chris teaches. Rocky Joel teaches. Connie…" Jean barked a laugh, "I'm not sure how Connie makes ends meet to be honest. Gazzer - remember Gazzer, the 'fro guy with the British accent? He and Lyd are married and he fills in for me on bass. But he's also an IT guy.

I'm the only guy that's…missing _pieces,_ you know? It's always, I'm just making ends meet. It's…well, it's fucking bumming me out. Armin and Mikasa are all like…don't worry about it. But I do. It's," his voice dropped, "it's humiliating. I can't figure it out. And I thought…" his fine, hazel eyes appealed to Ross, "Well, how does someone go from teacher's college, to being an Irving Lampe model, to selling software…and supporting a family? You know, properly?

Ross pursed his lips thoughtfully. Ethan's yogurt pop landed on the floor with a thump. "Uh-oh," he said.

__________

Ross opened his tablet, while Jean swiped a washcloth over the faces of Ethan, who screeched, and Sasha, who was annoyed because she was a big girl and could do it _herself._ Ross pulled Ethan onto his lap, and Sasha climbed up beside him.

"This couch," Sasha told Ross, looking up at him, her brown eyes serious and enchanting, "is older than me. It's probably even older than _you."_

"I don't know about that," Ross replied. "I'm a very old guy."

"How old?"

"Thirty-seven and a half."

"Whoa."

Ross's tablet sprang to life, and began to sing. An apple and a pear sang a duet, about counting. Ethan watched, mesmerized. A tiny, cherubic finger touched the screen. "Three!" exclaimed the pear.

"Just listen," Ross told Jean. He scrolled through a number of games and programs. One of them included a cat playing a saxophone. Sasha squealed.

"Have you ever thought," Ross said, "about writing songs and soundtracks, for software and digital media?"

"Huh," Jean mused. 

"If you like," Ross offered, "I could make some calls?"

The sax-playing cat got out of a taxi and walked down the road.

__________

It was a start. After Ross and Ethan left, Jean ran a bath for Sasha. 

"I babysat Ethan today," Sasha was self-congratulatory, swan-diving her rubber pterodactyl into the bubbles. "Can I get my hair wet?"

Jean sat on the closed lid of the toilet, feet up on the wall, thumbing through his phone. He'd filled Sasha's bath with boo-berry-bubbles, her favourite. He looked at her. She held one of the rubber dinosaurs under the water, filled it, and squirted it over her head.

Jean leaned back against the wall, watching her. 

"Are you tired, daddy?"

"A little bit. But not as tired as I have been, honey."

"Good."

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Your feet are big and mine are small and Armin's are medium."

"That's true."

"But Armin has the most shoes."

__________

Armin was enormously relieved to find the loft lights on when he got home. Too often, Jean just sat in the dark, for how long Armin could only guess at. Sasha had been bathed, read to, and put to bed. Kleenex had been fed, and curled, like an Easter egg, on Sasha's play mat.

Armin and Jean baked some sausages and sweet peppers and sat, one at either end of the brown couch, eating dinner and working. Armin curled up, his tablet in front of him, scrolling. Jean stretched out, laptop on his belly.

"Red, yellow and greeeeennn," sang the laptop cheerfully.

Armin burst out laughing. "What's _that?"_

"It teaches kids," Jean explained, "about traffic lights." _Red means stop!_

He didn't elaborate. Armin's mouth quirked in a curious smile.

Armin scrolled down his own screen. Stopped. Looked at the address he'd found - cleverly, he thought - by accessing archived copies of the Musicians' Union Toronto Local handbook. Donald "Dewey" Gordon. 1715 River Street, Regent Park.

"Jean?"

Jean looked up.

"D'you know who Dewey Gordon is?"

"Of course! He's a legend on bass in this town. Why? How do _you_ know who Dewey Gordon is?"

"Wedge."

"Hell, yeah," Jean enthused. "Dewey Gordon. Here,"

He rose, grabbed his ipod, and placed it into the dock. "Listen to this. This is vintage stuff, Arm. This is Dewey Gordon at Massey Hall. _Mockingbird._ "

Jazz filled the apartment. The percussion and horns faded, making way for a double-bass solo. 

"Fuck, man" Jean whispered appreciatively. "Fuck, Arm. _Listen_ to this dude…."

Armin watched Jean's face light up, and then cloud, his lively mouth turning down at the corners. "I'll never be that good."

Helooked down at his hands. "I…I can't even…."

Armin's heart sank. Resolutely, he bookmarked the address in his tablet and closed the cover.

"Yes," he said softly. "yes, _you can._ You _will."_ He closed the space between himself and Jean, crawling onto Jean's chest, nuzzling.

"You don't know that, baby."

"Yes I do," Armin said softly. "I know how to fix many things," he nibbled at Jean's jawline. "I am very clever."

"I heard," said Jean, "that you can throw a pretty nasty punch."

"Did my sister tell you that?" muffled, against Jean's throat.

"Y-yeah…"

"Do you want to fight me?"

Jean laughed. "No! You'd beat my ass!"

"You beat my ass," This was almost a soft moan. Small teeth closed on his earlobe.

"I know," Jean breathed. 

Armin's mouth found his, warm and needy. Jean's arms went around him, one hand snaking down the back of Armin's pants to cup his bottom, the other fisting into the soft blond hair at the nape of his neck.

"I want to make this little ass so red," Jean growled.

"We can't make noise," Armin gasped. 

Jean sat up, pulling Armin close. "Put your arms around my neck,"

Armin did, wrapping his legs around Jean's hips. Jean rose, holding Armin, and staggered down the hall.

"Fuck, you got _heavier,"_ he laughed. He braced Armin against the wall, winded.

"Lemme down."

Jean silenced his blond lover with an impatient kiss, his hard length pressing against Armin's groin. "No."

He bent at the waist, scooping Armin over his good shoulder and strode into the bedroom, kicking shut the door.

"Mine," he growled. "Mine…" he pulled down Armin's drawstring pants, slinging him over his lap and cracking his pale bottom, hard.

Armin opened him mouth, eyes wide, but no sound came out. That was _way_ too loud! Jean's strong hand came down again, stinging his wriggling backside deliciously. He shuddered, giggling. His eyes slid shut, and he found himself rocking and hitching against Jean's lap.

"It…oh…it _burns,_ " he breathed.

It did burn. And it burned when Jean dumped him onto the bed, face down, slicked fingers pushing hotly inside of him, making him squirm. 

"I…" Jean gasped raggedly. His hands were all over, tugging Armin's hair gently, pinning his wrists, forcing his thighs apart. Jean was urgent and rough and pushed inside of Armin, contouring himself to the slender back, both of them sweat-slick and panting.

"I… _need_ …you," Jean rasped. 

Armin responded, thrusting his hot, pink bottom back and up, against Jean's groin. 

Armin ground against him. Jean trembled, the ache in his cock silky-hot, until he burst, unravelling, collapsing with his willowy lover beneath him.

Armin twitched, sweat cooling on his skin. Jean's arms tightened. 

_Jean Kirschstein, that young man's on his way to being just as fine._


	32. Macaroons

_[Les. Is it legal for u to look up & confirm where somebody lives for me? Tx.] _

Armin hit send.

A few minutes later, his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Armin. It's Lesley."

"Oh, sorry…t-this really isn't an emergency. I just texted you 'cause I didn't want to bother you."

"I don't do texts. You want me, you can just call me."

"Oh. Okay."

Silence.

"Armin. What is it?"

"I just wondered, is it legal for you to look someone up in your system and confirm that they still live where they used to live?"

"Is it a public record?"

"I don't know."

"You try the phone book?"

Armin winced. "No."

A low, rich chuckle came through the phone. 

"What's this for?"

"It's a music thing. For Jean. An old musician guy."

"What name?"

"Donald Gordon. At 1715 River Street, Regent Park. But that was back in nineteen-eighty-four."

"And you know that how?"

"From an old TMO directory."

Armin waited. 

"Well," Les said patiently, "that's a public record, and if that's what it _says_ , then I guess that's where he _lives_."

Armin let this percolate, trying to determine if Les was indeed confirming the address.

"Uh.....okay...."

"That it?"

"That's it."

Les hung up.

__________

"We're almost never dispatched to Regent Park, eh?" Armin commented to Levi.

It was a slow afternoon, and the two paramedics were performing equipment checks in the vehicle bay. They had out their collapsible stretcher system.

"Hop on." Levi instructed.

Armin climbed onto the stretcher, lost in thought.

Frowning, Levi peered underneath the stretcher, looking at the locking mechanism. "Get off."

Armin slid off. "Regent Park's a pretty rough-and-tumble area," Armin continued.

"Collapse it," Levi directed. The two paramedics stood at either end of the stretcher, unlocked it and slowly lowered it to ground level.

"Okay. Up, again." They raised it. Armin resumed his chatter, but Levi shushed him.

"Shhh. It doesn't lock properly anymore. I didn't hear it lock." Levi folded his arms across his chest, scowling at the raised stretcher.

"Get on, again."

Armin sighed, hopping back on.

"They're tearing the old government housing down, though," Armin continued.

"Bounce." 

"Levi, how long have you lived in Toronto?"

"Lie down."

Armin lay down on the unit, hands folded behind his head. "People fall between the cracks in this city too much. They just get forgotten."

"Flop."

"What?"

"Turn over."

Armin flipped onto his belly. The stretcher collapsed, crashing to the cement floor with a boom. Armin yelled, bouncing like a rubber toy and rolled off of it, groaning.

"Huh," Levi nodded satisfied. "I knew it. It's unsafe. We need a new one."

__________

Chris Guthrie and Les Hastings lived on the east side of the city, in Riverdale. Armin had offered to stop by their house, in order to pick up two amplifiers for Jean, and bring them back to the loft.

This, he was on his way to do, but not before he'd made a visit to 1715 River Street. He'd kept his uniform blues on, and he had his radio with him.

Regent Park was a tough neighbourhood, bucking gentrification, and city officials used words like "community outreach", "police presence" and "revitalization" when making perennial campaign promises. 

Armin and Levi had, on occasion, responded to calls in the Projects; Armin remembered an overdose, a mother in labour, and a child who'd gotten caught in the stream of a fire hydrant and been washed a hundred feet down the sidewalk.

He sat in Jean's hatchback, in front of the brown brick low-rise on River Street. The building was C-shaped, it's central front yard a greyed expanse of dead winter grass, windblown leaves and snack wrappers. Armin took a breath.

Since Jean had entered his life, Armin had found himself doing things he'd never previously imagined; stepping outside of his comfort zone.

Armin closed his eyes. Remembered a rainy summer day; the steady beat of the wipers on the cab window. Jean's long-fingered hands drumming on the wheel. The wag-wag-wag of the bobblehead dinosaur suction-cupped to the dashboard. Jean's angular face and long, lazy smile. Armin had felt safe, and then as though her skin was on fire. Jean had been respectful, kind, accepting. An incredibly awkward flirt. His attentions had made Armin flush with pleasure. When in Jean's orbit, Armin allowed herself to soften entirely; to embrace the exquisite vulnerability that was so much a part of her soul.

Armin leaned on the wheel, staring fixedly at the dingy apartment building. Jean's physical strength was returning. His self-confidence was another matter. Armin saw it, but only in glimpses. All too often, Jean's eyes swam with murky tears. Lost.

Jean had loved Armin, cherished Armin. It was time for Armin to at least try and help him heal. Resolutely, he got out of the car, locking the doors.

He approached the building.

A bulky figure, swathed in a grey overcoat, brown wool toque and boots, was shambling slowly toward the apartment door, towing a metal shopping cart.Armin hurried forward, holding the door open.

"Hello," he said brightly.

A pair of rheumy eyes glanced up. A dark-skinned old man, with steel-grey hair. He gave Armin the slightest of nods.

Armin stood in the apartment vestibule, looking over the tenant directory. The names were spelled out, plastic letters affixed inside of a glass case, except that on one side, the glass was smashed out.

He looked for Mr. Gordon's name. Behind him, the stooped figure fumbled with some keys, opening the inner lobby door.

Armin turned, holding that door open as well.

"Pardon me," he said. "Do you know Mr. Gordon by any chance?"

The figure stopped, looking back at Armin, his worn face an impassive mask.

"Do you speak english?" Armin asked softly.

The old man snorted.

"Who send you?"

Armin frowned. "Why, nobody…sent me. I…are you Mr. Gordon?"

The old man looked at him. "Good afternoon," he said with polite finality, turned, got into the elevator with his shopping cart, and the door slid shut.

Armin stood in the lobby, perplexed.

His radio crackled. _[Arlert?]_

Armin jumped "Jesus!"

 _[Arlert, what's you twenty?]._ Levi's voice.

"Hey, partner."

_[Mr. Arlert, the City of Toronto would like it's fucking radio back, please. It's not a toy for your personal entertainment.]_

"Sorry. I guess I walked out wearing it! I'm sorry!"

_[Just remember it tomorrow.]_

"Copy, Levi."

Armin turned back to the directory. Ah. Gordon, D. Apartment L4. Lower level.

Armin froze, his hand hovering over the buzzer. He pressed it. Nothing. He waited. Pressed it again.

"Yes?"

"Hello. Is this Mr. Gordon?"

"Who send you?" Armin grinned, recognizing the voice. 

"Hey, I think I just spoke to you, in the lobby? I'm the paramedic? May I please come in?"

A pause. The door buzzed.

Armin got into the elevator, which smelled rank. Put his hands on his hips. Okay.

The basement hallway was adorned with a squiggly red stripe of graffiti, running at waist height from one end to the other, transversing the grey metal apartment doors. Two small boys were playing mini-hockey in the hallway. They looked at Armin silently. He knocked softly on the door of apartment L4. 

The door opened, and his new acquaintance peered out.

"Hi," Armin grinned. "again."

The man watched him.

"You're Dewey Gordon?"

The old man nodded, a grudging acquiescence.

"My name's Armin. Would it be alright if I talked to you, for a few minutes?"

"I'm busy right now." the old man said quietly.

Armin peeked past him, looking into the sparsely-furnished apartment. He recognized containers from Meals on Wheels; an organization that brought hot meals to individuals in need. The apartment was tidy, dark and gloomy.

"Tell them I'm fine and I don't need you, thank you. Good day."

The door closed.

Armin stood in the hallway, flummoxed.

He walked back toward the elevator.

 _[What are you doing, Armin?]_ Levi Ackerman's strident voice came out of nowhere. Armin groaned. He'd left his com-link open.

"Sssh!" Armin hissed. 

 _[Where are you?]_ his partner persisted.

__________

Armin didn't know why it surprised him that Les and Chris's kitchen should smell like a Sunday oven roast and nutmeg. He approached the back door, opening it slowly, dangling a Milk Bone dog biscuit. "Here, Kojak," he cooed. "Good boy. Who's a good boy?"

The ancient shepherd tottered to his feet, giving Armin a cursory growl anyway.

"It's just me," Armin called, stepping inside, shifting the grocery bag in his arms. Oh, it was nice and warm in here. 

The Hastings-Guthrie kitchen was a haphazard, mid-century mish-mash; it sported wallpaper patterned with tea kettles, orange curtains and brown melamine cupboards. The fridge buzzed, and the clock ticked. Neither Les nor Chris seemed to have the slightest inclination toward updating the old home's decor.

Armin found Les in the sunporch, in his easy chair, watching NFL football. 

The tall detective sat up, turning to look at Armin.

"How's Armin today?" Les looked curiously at the grocery bag. "What you got there?"

Armin grinned. "Nothing."

"Macaroons," Lesley observed.

"Well, _yeah,_ macaroons, but I got them to take to Mr. Gordon."

"Mr. Gordon. You found your Mr. Gordon?"

"Well, it's…" Armin was cut off as Les growled, " _Throw the damn ball, boy!"_ at the TV.

Armin took a breath.

"No protection in the pocket," Les grumbled.

"Les..."

Les looked up at Armin; a long, measured look. This young man was interrupting the Bears game.

Armin winced. "I don't know what to do, now."

"You're standing in my sunporch with some macaroons for Mr. Gordon and you don't look all that happy."

"No."

"Siddown."

"But…"

_"Sit."_

Les rose himself, walked into the kitchen and returned with two beers. He cracked the cap off of one and handed it to Armin.

The tall detective lowered himself back into his chair. "Fourth down," he mumbled.

Armin took a small sip of his beer. Then another. He considered the game on the TV.

A few minutes later, halftime began and Lesley turned to look at his young visitor.

"So, why Mr. Gordon needs your macaroons?"

"Les, you know that Jean's having a really tough time of things. I mean, he's doing very well physically, but he's like," Armin's hands fluttered nervously, "he's sort of…of lost, you know? He doesn't have a day job anymore, the insurance is stalling, he's depressed, he's worried about money, he's tired…"

Les regarded Armin evenly. He didn't nod, nor did he make any sound. This disconcerted Armin, who squirmed self-consciously. He swallowed.

"Jean needs…he needs to get back to…to _himself._ To start over again. So…so this Mr. Gordon, Dewey Gordon, he's a retired musician. A jazz bass player. A rather famous one, in his day. Jean admires him. I dunno. I was just sort of hoping that maybe he'd speak to Jean. You know…meet him, tell him some stories about Brighton, spend a little time with him. But I upset him somehow, and he closed his apartment door. In my face. He doesn't have much. So, I thought maybe if I brought him a few things. To say sorry. But instead of going back, I came here. I'm at a loss."

Armin slumped back into the couch.

Les Hastings regarded the young EMT. Paused for a long moment.

"You go down into Regent Park suited up like that?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Les Hastings chuckled, shaking his head.

"Why? Why'd you do that?"

"What do you mean?" Armin frowned. "You mean, why'd I wear my uniform there? He touched his lapel self-consciously. "I…I guess I figured that if I'm going to show up on this man's doorstep…he'd see that I was a paramedic…so he'd know that I'm not a _threat_ or anything. So he'd feel safer."

Les Hastings fixed his eyes on Armin, shaking his head slowly.

"No, Armin. _No._ You need to understand that for many people, a uniform doesn't mean safety. You need to understand that."

The detective pinned Armin with his dark eyes.

"I do know that." Armin said petulantly.

" _You don't know._ That old man probably thought someone had called Social Services on him. Someone gonna try and take his home away from him. Take him to a hospital. Someone, somehow, want to mess with him."

Armin opened his mouth. Shut it again.

"I never thought of that," he said quietly. "What do I do now?"

"You sit there." Les got another couple of beers.

Armin sat in Les Hastings' sunporch, drinking bottles of lager and watching the Chicago Bears pummel the New York Jets.

The kitchen floor creaked. Armin looked up to see Chris standing in the doorway.

"Dude!" Chris looked very pleased to see him, and a tad confused to find him sitting on the couch watching football with Lesley.

"Hiya," said Armin, whose cheeks were now pink, and a little blotchy.

Chris chuckled, his cognac eyes widening mirthfully. "You like football, Armin?"

"I dunno," Armin replied truthfully. 

"You want those amplifiers, man?" Chris asked.

"Armin," Lesley intoned, "is busy watching the Bears just now."

"Okay Papi," Chris said indifferently. "I have another student at four. I'll come back up in a while." He left, chuckling.

Armin and Lesley sat in the sunporch as the late winter sun began to sink.

Armin had just cracked his fourth beer. "What's a first down?" he asked.

"First down is a unit of play. It's an opportunity for the team in possession to advance the ball ten yards."

"Oh. And if they advance the ball ten yards?"

"It's first down again."

"And if they can't?"

"It's second down."

Armin reached out, fisting a handful of pretzels and shoving them into his mouth noisily.

Les growled at the TV.

Armin's head was pleasantly warm and muzzy from the beer. "How hard can it _be,_ " he hiccuped, "to move a ball _ten yards?_ "

"Some things are not what they seem." Lesley turned to look at him pointedly.

The detective reached into Armin's grocery bag, helping himself to the macaroons.

"Hey," Armin pouted.

"You want my read on this old man of yours?" Les asked. 

"No!" Armin answered defensively. 

Les shrugged indifferently. "Okay."

He turned his attention back to the TV.

"Yes," Armin said softly.

Les bit into a macaroon, chewing thoughtfully. He washed it down with a swallow of beer.

"Mr. Gordon, he doesn't want your pity. He doesn't want your groceries. As you tell it to me, this is about something _you_ need." Les jabbed a finger at Armin.

"If you want his help, I suggest you go back there, and you be honest with him, and you ask him for help. Person to person. And you leave the jack boots at home."

Armin contemplated the older man's words for a long while.

Chris's curly head appeared around the doorway.

"Ready yet?"

"I think," said Armin through a mouthful of pretzels, "I'm gonna watch the rest of the Bears game."

Detective Les Hastings nodded his head approvingly.

 


	33. Letting Go

"Good day!" A bright, white grin split Thomas Wagner's tanned face.

Armin smiled into the screen of his tablet. "Good day, Thomas! How are you?"

The friendly German ceramicist nodded, smiling. "Ja, super! So?"

Armin knew about twenty words in German, and none of them could adequately describe his problem.

"Thomas…"

"Ja, Armin. How are you?"

"Not good," Armin shook his head slowly. "I have a problem with my tile project."

"Tiles?"

"Ja," Armin nodded vigerously. He picked his tablet up and walked from the loft's kitchen into the living room. He adjusted the view so that Thomas Wagner could see his half-finished tiling project. He'd been trying to create a custom surround for the gas fireplace. He'd chosen a gorgeous, smoky taupe tile for the purpose. He'd woken that morning to find the bottom three rows of tiles buckled haphazardly.

"Look," he sighed sadly.

"Uh-oh," Thomas's voice came through the tablet's speaker, "uh-oh, Armin…" followed by a commentary in German.

Armin turned the tablet back around and looked at Thomas.

"Scheisse," Thomas shook his head sadly.

"Yeah, _shit._ " Armin agreed.

Thomas looked offscreen. "Marco! herkommen, _schatzi_."

"Okay, Armin." Thomas nodded as if to say,  _here's some help,_ as Marco Bodt's face appeared.

"Hey, stranger!" Marco smiled broadly. When he did so, soft scar tissue swirled around his right eye. 

Armin exhaled, as though expelling a year's worth of angst.

"Uh-oh. What's up?"

"Fuck… _Fuck_. I feel so stupid."

"Dude, what?"

Armin showed the buckled tiles to Marco. "What the hell? Why did this happen?"

Marco winced. "Oh, _man._ "

Armin's delicate features were tight with stress. His hair was gathered into a wonky top-knot. His expressive eyes bore purple smudges beneath them.

A sympathetic chuckle from Marco. "Aw, Armin, it's okay. It's easily fixed. Those tiles are too heavy for your adhesive, that's all. You can't do the whole project in one shot. It needs to set, two rows at a time."

"Fuck _sakes!_ "

Marco frowned at the younger man's uncharacteristic sourness.

"You should be able…"

"I have to do this all _again_?"

"…should be able to save most of the tiles."

"I had it all done once and had to take them all down because…"

"Why don't you give my dad a shout? Or Angelo?"

…"Because the _cat got inside the wall_!"

Marco yelped with laughter. "The cat?"

"...got inside the wall. Kleenex. I was all done and then it was like… _meow…meow_ …when I finally got her out, she was filthy."

"Kat?" Thomas asked, offside.

"I'm not having a good day, and it's only eleven," Armin huffed.

"Armin," Marco's voice became quiet. "I can't tell you all of the things that went through my head when I had my accident. Like…fuck. I was scared. I was furious. I was ashamed that, after growing up in a construction family, I was so careless. I was limp with relief that I could still see. And…"

He put his arm around Thomas, who'd cheerfully reappeared, eating a pastry, "I wondered if this talented, beautiful and accomplished man would even _want_ a boy with a bunch of scars around his eye. So…so, hang in there, Armin. Jean is stronger than I am. He'll be okay."

Thomas planted a noisy kiss on Marco's cheek. "Super!" he declared.

__________

March in Toronto offered an unpredictable grab bag of weather. Snow, gusty winds, bright, sunny days. Sullen rain, which melted the greyed mounds of urban snow down to dirty sugar. It was sunny and cold when Armin set off for Regent Park. Again. He half-wondered if this was the day for such an errand. He'd spent the rest of the morning chipping tiles off of the fireplace surround and re-sanding the surface, and he was feeling a little short-tempered.

He'd thrown on some thick grey leggings, one of Irving Lampe's sweaters, Jean's bomber jacket - which was deliciously oversize -  and suede boots with colourful wool-work cuffs. He'd wrapped his precious pink scarf from Jean around his neck and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder.

__________

It was Tuesday. Meals on Wheels came on Wednesday. Dewey Gordon carefully portioned out each of his meals. He didn't eat all that much, anyway. He placed a plate onto the counter in his small kitchen and toasted two slices of Wonder Bread. As he waited, he watched the traffic out on River Street: streetcars, bikes and taxis. His apartment windows were a decent size, but as he lived in the basement, the windows began about chest-height.

He got a small tub of margarine out of his fridge.

A knock at the door.

Who could that be, on a Tuesday? 

Sighing, he took a few steps toward the door before he heard a soft voice: "Mr. Gordon? Are you home? It's me again. Armin? From the other day?"

Dewey frowned, standing in his hallway. Perhaps the visitor would just go away. He waited. 

Another knock. " _Please_ , Mr. Gordon, are you home?"

Dewey turned quietly back toward the kitchenette. He had nothing to say to this Armin, or whatever that young man in the uniform had called himself.

His toast popped. Two slices. He topped each of these with one slice of ham, and one square of processed cheese.

He looked out of his window then, giving a surprised bark. There, outside of the window, was a pair of colourful boots, two grey knees, and a curious, button-nosed face, haloed by a pink scarf, crouching and looking in at him.

"What d'you want?" he growled, uneasiness making him sound much testier than he'd really intended.

The young figure blinked.

Dewey opened the window a crack. The spring air smelled earthy. 

"Please, Mr. Gordon. _Please._ I need help."

When Dewey said nothing, the visitor continued: "I need help. For my boyfriend, actually, look…" the youngster fished into a large bag he had slung across his shoulder, pulling out a coloured paper flyer.

Without hesitation, the flyer was deposited through the window.

"I'm part of the Brighton jazz community, same as you," the gentle voice said a little breathlessly. "See this playbill? This band is _Cherry Kirsch_. Brighton's house band. And my boyfriend, Jean Kirschstein, he's the bass player. And…"

The young man called Armin rummaged into his bag again. His fingers and small nose were red from the cold. He held a picture up to the window.

"This…this is Jean. And that's Sasha, his daughter. She's only five. And they got into a horrible car accident last November. He nearly died. He's had operations, and therapy, and treatment..."

Armin slid the picture inside the window.

"Oh, and look, see? Here's my racing form. I make bets with Wedge. You know Wedge? Ambrose Martin?" a little giggle, "well, who'd have guessed, but I've got a bit of a knack for playing the ponies, as it happens. Isn't that funny?"

Dewey Gordon reached into the pocket of his sweater, unfolded and put on his eyeglasses. He placed the playbill onto the counter, beside his ham and cheese sandwiches. 

"Cherry Kirsch," he said finally, then pointed at the band's picture. "Say, that's not young Rocky Joel Lee?"

"Yes!" Armin gasped, hoping that he was getting somewhere, "Yes, Rocky Lee plays sax. He was Jean's music teacher, at school. And see the guitar player? He's called Chris Guthrie."

"I played," said Dewey "with Jerome Lee….Jerome Lee and Ambrose Martin."

"In seventy-two, yes, I know! I know…all of that. So it's…"

Armin's fingers curled into the sleeves of the oversize jacket he wore

"So…Jean…Jean is kind, and talented, and funny. He's smart, and well-loved…and right now he feel so sad… _so sad_ , and lonely, and angry. I'm worried about him, I love him, and I'm asking you…no really Mr. Gordon, I'm _pleading_ with you…to share some of yourself with Jean. He's got every record you ever made…Massey Hall, Yorkville…"

Dewey Gordon picked up the photograph. It showed a small girl, holding a plastic dinosaur figurine, feeding it a french fry from her father's dinner plate.

"I guess," Dewey said slowly, opening up the window wide, "I guess you best come in."

__________

Armin raced up Sina Court, breathless, checking his watch. He had a half-hour to pick Sasha up and get her to Dovercourt Community Centre to register for spring and summer programs. His messenger bag thumped against his hip as he ran.

He'd landed in Dewey Gordon's kitchen, like a little multi-coloured cat, looking curious and a little more intrepid than he'd felt. He'd been invited to sit in one of the chrome chairs at the table. Mr. Gordon had made him some tea, and given him one of two meagre open-faced ham sandwiches that he'd evidently been planning to have for lunch.

Armin's first thought was to refuse the hospitality, as Mr. Gordon had clearly intended to eat both sandwiches. Then, he remembered his conversation with Les Hastings.

"You had lunch?" Dewey Gordon had asked.

"No," Armin had answered. "I haven't, as it happens."

"Have a sandwich."

"Thank you. Thanks. I've got some more pictures in here, I…'

"How's Ambrose?"

"Oh," Armin had looked up from his bag. "He's well."

"And Jerome's boy? He has kids?"

"Rocky Joel? His daughter Alicia is in her teens, and Nadine is the same age as Sash. They're best pals."

They'd chatted, Dewey Gordon looking thoughtfully at the picture of Jean. 

Armin had left the same way he'd come in, through the kitchen window.

__________

Armin stood in line, in the packed auditorium at Dovercourt Community Centre, sweating in his scarf and Jean's coat. He had his glasses on, and with one hand corralled Sasha into an orbit around him while he flipped through the community course catalogue.

"Stay here, Sash."

"Can I play on the trampoline?"

"In a minute."

"Armin!" 

Armin looked up to see Simone Lee. "Oh, Simone, hi!" he greeted Simone and Nadine. Sasha heaved on his arm toward Nadine.

Simone held a course catalogue, identical to Armin's. "Swimming lessons?"

Armin fumbled for a pencil, which he'd stabbed into his topknot. "Well, yeah…but…this is so confusing! There isn't there just _one_ swim session for four-to-six-year-olds. And I can't get hold of Mikki," He looked a little panicked. "I mean, there's like…Sea Otter, and Starfish…and Crocodile…" 

Simone laughed. "See Moonie," she said to a pretty, dark-eyed lady jogging a baby to sleep, "new stepdad syndrome. Armin, you look tired, my dear."

Armin flushed. He'd never been referred to as Sasha's step-parent before. He smiled. "Help me?"

Moonie reached out with her free hand, "put her in Crocodiles with Nadine and Faz."

"Okay…thanks, I… _Sasha!_ I asked you to _wait_ , please!"

"You know Moonie?" Simone addressed Armin. "Armin, this is Moonie Nasir. Her husband Tariq is on the job with Les Hastings."

"Oh," Armin took Moonie's hand, "Oh gosh, of course! Detective Nasir. I'm…well, I'm Armin."

Armin got Sasha registered for Crocodiles and towed her down a corridor toward room 4B, to register for gymnastics. The corridor had a long row of plexiglass windows, facing into the gymnasium. Armin wheeled around, as Sasha dug both heels in to stop him. "What is it, sweetie?"

Sasha climbed up onto a teak bench, and pressed her nose against the plexiglass. Inside the gymnasium, a row of children stood at one end. At the other end were six brightly-coloured archery targets. Sasha watched in silent fascination as a boy of about nine years of age carefully drew back his bow, coached by an instructor. He loosed his arrow, tipped with a rounded blunt, and it stuck into the target.

Sasha watched, captivated. Another child, a girl not much older than herself, stepped up. The little girl planted her feet precisely, raised her bow, then lowered it to listen to an instruction. She stepped up again, drew back smoothly, sighted, and loosed her arrow.

Sasha's small hands were planted on the glass. It was as if she'd forgotten to breathe. She turned her head slowly.

"Armin," she exclaimed. "I don't want to do gymnastics. _I want to do this!"_

__________

"Close tha' window."

"It's spring, little dude," Chris Guthrie replied, inhaling night air that smelled of something more promising than frozen dirt.

"It's not spring, ya _plonk_."

"Soon though," Jean sat in the ancient, foam-belching armchair, tuning up his bass in Cherry Kirsch's rehearsal space.

"I'm fookin' freezin' over here!" Connie crashed his high-hat pointedly.

"Well I'm falling asleep, man," Chris yawned hugely.

"Must be my arrangement of _Lil' Darling_ ," Jean sighed.

"It's a good arrangement," Rocky Joel Lee sat on the piano bench with Lydia. "Jus' we need to go a little up-tempo, that is all."

"It bites," Jean grumbled.

_"Shut the fookin' bloody window!"_

"Let's do Georgia," Jean suggested. "It's a better fit. Lyd?"

"Yes, Kirschy, let's do _Georgia_."

"Been a long time," a low, well-worn voice.

Jean's head shot up. A bulky figure stood just inside the doorway, leading from the sound booth into the rehearsal space. Jean's bandmates also looked on curiously. An older man, in a grey overcoat. Dark trousers. Very worn oxford shoes, carefully polished. He carried a hard-shelled instrument case.

"Been a long time," he repeated, nodding, "since I heard Georgia sung live."

Rocky Joel Lee stood up slowly. Squinted. Threw back his head and laughed with delight. "Well! Well, well, well…is it really you, Uncle?"

He walked forward, holding out both hands and grasped the older man's hand in his own.

"Listen now," he bellowed joyfully. "we are honoured. We are _so_ honoured…" he turned, presenting the stooped figure to the other musicians, "May I present to you Mister Dewey Gordon!"

Jean stood shakily, knocking his music stand to the linoleum with a clatter. He stared, open-mouthed at the simply-attired black man with the steel-grey hair and rheumy eyes. Dewey Gordon.

Lydia had risen from the piano bench, approached and extended a slender hand.

"Welcome, _Uncle_ ," she used the same honorific Rocky Joel had. "Please sit."

"S-sir, take my seat. Please, I…" Jean fumbled to collect his collapsed music stand.

Dewey Gordon placed the case containing his bass guitar onto the floor. He studied the tall, clumsily earnest young man who had risen. A slight limp, a dark green wool beanie, a wide, gentle mouth.

"Pleasure to meet you, Kirschy."

Jean blinked, overwhelmed. "I…."

"I hear we got a little bit in common."

"I… _yeah_ , I play bass. It's such a serious honour to meet you, sir. I think I've got every recording you've ever made!"

Dewey Gordon nodded. He smiled, and years seemed to melt from his careworn face. "I played at Brighton. I played with this young man's father," he gestured to Rocky Joel.

"See? Somebody think I'm young," the professor snickered.

"You come to see Rocky Joel?" Jean asked.

"I come," Dewey Gordon nodded, "to visit with you and your band."

__________

Lydia sang _Georgia_. She sang it soulfully, beautifully. The band ran through a few more jazz standards that Jean had given a fresh twist to.

Jean's face burned. His fingers were numb; they seemed to trip over the frets. He set his lips tightly. Someone - Rocky Joel, probably? - had known how much he admired Dewey Gordon. And now, here he was, in the flesh. _And Jean was playing horribly._ He wanted to melt into the floor.

They took a break. Dewey Gordon reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out a mickey and handed it to Jean.

"Here," he nudged.

Jean took the silver mickey, unscrewed the top and took a swig.

"Dizzy Gillespie give me that," Dewey chuckled. He looked into a corner of the rehearsal space. "that your double bass?"

Jean nodded. He hadn't played stand-up bass since the accident.

"How's about we tune that up?"

"Yes!" Chris laughed. "Yes to that!"

Jean walked to the corner. The instrument's deep cherry finish shone out of the gloom. He reached out a hand, pulling it forward.

"My hair," Dewey said from behind him, "ain't white 'cause I'm old, although I am that."

Jean looked back.

"My hair turn grey in Vietnam. I had me a few years I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy."

The older man looked at Jean carefully. "I," he said softly, "I wasn't right. I come home, and I wasn't right. Nothing was right. I wandered around, doing odd jobs here and there. It was Jerome got me to pick up that bass again."

Jean tried to speak around the ache in his throat. "I had an accident." he whispered, eyes pricking with tears.

"Take that lovely lady out of the corner," the old man said, "we gonna play _Mockingbird_."

Jean had closed his eyes. Chris had counted them in. He'd warmed up, and yet he still tripped over the notes for the next hour. And then, something clicked. He let go of the anxiety twisting his gut into knots. He let go of the worry that he was letting  _Cherry Kirsch_ down, letting his family down. He let go of the pain in his side, the ache in his neck, the weakness in his leg. He let go of trying to keep his fingerwork crisp and neat, and allowed the instrument to take him where he needed to go.

__________

_On March 21st, 2015, Cherry Kirsch played four sets to a sold-out crowd at Brighton Jazz and Billiard Club, in downtown Toronto. The innovative quintet, formed by bassist Jean Kirschstein and guitarist Chris Guthrie, had been sidelined for a number of months due to injuries sustained by the bassist in a motor vehicle accident. Cherry Kirsch was joined by jazz bass legend Donald "Dewey" Gordon, who sat in for a set with the band. The session was recorded in-house. "Cherry Kirsch Live at Brighton" became one of the most popular jazz recordings of 2015 and spotlighted band leader Jean Kirschstein's triumphant return to the city's jazz scene._

__________

Armin lay atop the bedcovers. A soft, pre-dawn rain beaded the round bedroom window. Chills quilted Armin's skin, creeping up and down his limbs. 

Beside him, Jean slept. He must have showered shortly before Armin had come in from shift, because he gave off a warm, soft scent. His sandy hair was touseled on the pillow, sleep softening his angular features.

"Mmmm," Armin whispered appreciatively, "baby…"

He shivered deliciously. Closed his eyes. He lay there, soft waves of arousal washing over him. Smiled to himself in the dark. Shifted his hips a little, gasping softly as his blooming erection strained against the boxer briefs he wore. 

He wanted to touch himself, wanted to wake Jean, and yet he lay still, savouring the sweet ache.

His bones complained from shift, but this was overlaid with a blissful contentment. Jean had been outstanding last night at Brighton. A little rough around the edges to the seasoned ear, but Cherry Kirsch had it's heart back.

Armin moaned faintly. He didn't want to wake Jean, who'd had some trouble sleeping lately. He bit his lip, his thoughts drifting persistently back to one night late last summer. Armin had been wearing a sundress and gorgeous, cream-coloured strappy sandals. She'd somehow ended up naked, except for the sandals, bent over the bed pillows, squirming and whining as Jean had pushed inside of her. The way the sandal straps had pulled against her ankles, the way Jean had used his strong thighs to push her shaking legs further apart, the words he'd gasped into her ear… _bad girl, naughty girl_ …had caused her to lift her bottom into his thrusts and then sparks had shot up her spine and she'd orgasmed into the pillows for the first time, without being stroked.

 _"Fuck,"_ Armin murmured softly into the darkness. He looked to his left. Jean lifted his head slowly, one eye sneaking open. Armin lay motionless, berry pink tip of his cock pushing out the top of his boxers. There was a languid stillness between them, as the lovers regarded one another. 

Jean moved then, slowly shifting alongside Armin, dipping his head and gently flicking the tip of his tongue against the head of Armin's erection. Armin shuddered, laying quietly in their bed as Jean leisurely teased and coaxed his arousal, the only contact between them being Jean's lips and tongue tenderly working his cock.

Armin made no sound, even when Jean's lips closed firmly around his shaft, dragging his length into the silk of his throat. Armin's legs jackknifed helplessly and he tensed his bottom, hips lifting as Jean suckled him slowly, tongue mercilessly working the sweet knot of flesh on the underside of his glans.

Almost coming…almost…and then the delicious sucking eased. A cry broke from Armin's lips; it was wild and needy and caused Jean's eyes to snap open for a moment. No, he hadn't hurt Armin. _God._ Armin's belly quivered and rippled with need, his bow lips softened and rounded wordlessly into a sweet 'O'.

Jean slid his hands under Armin's hips and flipped them over so that Jean was on his back, face beneath Armin's groin, and Armin clutched one of the bed pillows in his arms as his knees fell to either side of Jean's shoulders. 

Jean's touch remained gentle; delicately holding Armin's cock in his mouth, his long fingers scribing soft circles onto his boy's buttocks, tickling lightly.

Finally, he let Armin's sex slip free of his lips for a moment.

"Fuck my mouth," he rasped. "do it."

Armin was panting incoherently, pushed to the edge.

He sank his cock into the warm mouth beneath his body. The calloused hands splayed on his buttocks squeezed softly. 

Jean had brought him to a place of complete abandon, and Armin moaned and whimpered without restraint. 

Jean smiled, as much as he could with Armin's girth in his mouth. Competent, efficient Armin making such sweet, _needy_ sounds. 

Armin pulled back, fucking into the velvet of Jean's mouth again. And again. Faster. More, more, more. So delicious.

"Oh….God, yes, yes, yes, yes, _YES!"_

Armin came, squirming and sobbing into the pillows.

He felt utterly boneless. He allowed Jean to roll him over, and gather him close, tangling and tucking their limbs together.

As they drifted into sleep, Jean murmured against his neck, "Thank you, baby. I know. I know…what you did, for me. I love you."

 

Cherry Kirsch had it's heart back.

 

 


	34. Like Pages Torn From Picture Books

Her dark eyes were large and round. She sat on the bench in the nurse's office at Clinton Street School, the tips of her sneakers just touching the linoleum floor. Her mouth was set in a sad little line.

"Hey Sash," Armin stood in the doorway holding her lunchbox, her knapsack, and a plastic carrier bag which made her cheeks flame with embarrassment.

She said nothing. Armin was wearing his blue uniform, with the radio clipped to his shoulder. He had on a blue wool toque with the letters EMT on it. Armin sat down on the bench beside her.

Sasha looked down at the track pants and socks she wore, which weren't hers.

"You okay?" Armin asked softly.

Nothing.

"You want to talk to Levi on the radio?"

"Armin, I peed."

"Yeah."

"I peed my pants." 

"Yeah. I know. It's okay. People pee. I peed my pants at work."

She looked up curiously, a bit of a twinkle returning to her brown eyes. "Really?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

Armin leaned back against the wall and pulled off his toque. His hair was shot with static, like a dandelion.

"Well, I was helping someone to breathe. And when you're doing that, you can't stop, even to pee. So I kept on helping them and I just peed."

"I peed because I was playing at recess and I tried to run inside in time, but I blew it."

Armin nodded. "I see."

"These are George's track pants."

"Oh. I had to wear Levi's extra pants when I peed."

Sasha nodded, patting Armin's knee. "That's okay."

__________

It was drizzling. Early March. The dampness clung to Sasha's eyelashes, spiking them together. She'd perked up considerably by the time she and Armin got back to the loft. Jean was at rehearsal, and Armin decided to make chicken bone soup.

He pulled the stockpot out of the fridge and lit the gas burner. Leaned against the counter. Smiled softly to himself. How had it come to be, that he could make chicken bone soup now? And stew. And a respectable curry. He gazed around the loft, at the mess of strewn toys, clothing, newspapers, sheet music. His bikes hanging on the wall. Sasha's bike and ladybug helmet. 

"Armin!"

He snapped out of his reverie. "Yes, Sunshine?"

"Have you ever seen a comet?"

"Nope."

"If a comet falls on us, I will cover Kleenex so she doesn't die."

Armin began dicing carrots into pirate coins. He handed two to Sasha.

"Armin?"

"Yes?"

"I love you," she buried her nose in his sweater, squeezing his waist.

He inhaled a small, surprised breath. "I love you too, honey."

"You smell like applesauce," Sasha remarked. "Armin?"

"Yes?"

"Are you my family now?"

His eyes flicked up. He thought he'd done so well, prepared himself for any line of questioning. He'd been able to share his truth, in terms she understood. He placed the paring knife onto the counter. Swallowed.

He knew her heart-shaped face was upturned, orange Ritz cracker crumbs at the corners of her mouth. He couldn't look at her.

She mistook his silence for lack of comprehension. "Don't you get it?" she prodded.

"I get it."

He picked her up then, sitting her on the counter.

"Look," he said, touching the herb pots on the window ledge. "See how big the parsley is now?"

She nodded.

"Remember when we planted seeds? And at first the parsley was just a bunch of tiny little shoots, and now it's big? 

Well," he bit his lip, "families are a little bit like this. Families take time to grow, just like trees and flowers."

"I don't think we need more time," Sasha looked at him soberly.

He smoothed her hair. "Thank you for letting me know that," he said simply.

Sasha scrambled down then, and went to find Kleenex.

Armin stood, leaning against the kitchen counter and stared out at the drizzle.

__________

Armin could hear Jean and Chris Guthrie thumping about in the hallway, laughing and singing. The two musicians burst into the loft, engrossed in a conversation that was half spoken, half sung. Jean stopped in the kitchen, planting kisses onto Armin's cheeks and lips.

"Soup!"

"Soup."

Armin turned to Chris. "Want some soup, Face?"

"Sure," Chris nodded. "thanks, dude."

Jean sat down at the piano, Chris beside him, and began scribbling and playing.

"Fatherrrr!" Sasha threw herself onto Jean's lap and he snickered. 

"Sashmo!"

"Daddy, want to play Dino Eggs?"

"I do...but maybe a little later…I have a song stuck in my head, and it wants to come out."

Sasha squealed.

Jean looked over at Armin. "Sorry. Are you okay if we work on something here? Were you gonna watch anything?"

"It's not a big deal," Armin said. What he really wanted was to talk to Jean. "It was just a documentary. On aqueducts. Nerd stuff."

"What's a nerd?" Sasha wanted to know.

"I'm a nerd." Armin sighed, stirring the soup.

__________

After Chris had gone, Jean remained at the piano, writing, rewriting, humming, his long fingers stroking the keys.

Armin put Sasha to bed, after letting her brush her teeth and hair in their ensuite.

She had peeked at their stark metal bedframe, denuded of the linen curtains Armin had adorned it with.

"Where are the bed curtains?" she asked him.

"I had to take them down. Kleenex was climbing up them."

Sasha giggled. "Oh. That's not good. Because I was going to ask you to make me bed curtains, too."

"Maybe when Kleenex is bigger."

"Like, next week?"

Armin smirked. "No, more like next Christmas."

"Will you make me purple curtains at Christmas?"

Christmas. What would next Christmas be like? Jean's accident had thrown everything into such sharp relief. The focus had been on the here and now; not on the someday, or the maybe. 

"Sure," Armin said. 

Sasha closed her mouth, quashing the hum of her spinning Darth Vader toothbrush. Armin stared into the mirror, pondering the passage of time…months, and then years. He'd turn twenty-five in November. Then thirty. _Thirty_. He didn't feel twenty-five, much less thirty. When he thought of being thirty, he thought of Ross. Ross, raising a family.

"Spit, Sash," he instructed unconsciously. Would Sasha ever have another sibling? Perhaps a little boy, like Ethan?  

When Sasha was asleep, he stole back into the living room, sitting beside Jean on the piano bench, facing outward.

Without looking up, Jean hooked an arm around Armin's shoulders, pulling him close enough to plant soft kisses on his temple.

"It's incredible to see you and Chris collaborating again," Armin said. 

Jean nodded, humming, scratching notes onto staff paper. 

"Am I bugging you?"

 _Am I? Because Sasha wants to know if we're a family. And I want to know if you'll still want me, after my pretty glitter rubs off and all that's left is a bookish little boy; not someone as gifted as Chris, nor as successful as Marco._  

"Not _bugging_ ," Jean amended, "bugging's a bit of a strong word for it." He nipped Armin's earlobe. "distracting, maybe."

Armin leaned against Jean. "but not helping."

"I'll come to bed soon."

Armin had gone to bed then, drifting into a fitful sleep, listening to runs of twinkling notes from the living room, rising and falling like leaves in the wind.

__________

He was so still that he didn't look real. He sat in Mama's library, in a wing chair, with his legs crossed neatly. His hair was black, like Mama's, and neatly combed. He wore grey trousers, with crisp creases ironed into them.

He didn't speak to Sasha in that crayon-bright voice that most adults used when addressing small children; he spoke to her in measured tones, and it made her feel very grown-up.

Levi was babysitting. _Child care,_ was the term Sasha preferred, pointing out that she wasn't a baby, like Ethan Arlert. Mama and Daddy and Armin were all at Clinton Street School, for parent's night. They were talking to her kindergarten teacher. Levi had offered to provide _child care_. Sasha's curiosity had overcome any misgivings she'd had about being left in the care of the blunt little man that left her a wee bit awestruck.

At eight o-clock, she'd gone into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and put on her pyjamas and slippers. She'd appeared in the library doorway, clutching Pandora, her pink rubber pterodactyl and a book.

Levi Ackerman looked up, his grey lynx-eyes lighting on her. His hair glowed, like tar in the summertime.

"What have you got there?" he asked her. She held a picture book.

"Marvin and the Giant Muffin."

Levi steepled his fingers together. Their tips touched, mirror-perfect. "I see." he said. "do you know how that story ends?"

"Yeah," Sasha said. "The Muffin rolls down a big hill and crashes into the school."

Levi's lips quirked a little. "Well," he said, "since you know how that story ends, how about we try something else?"

"Else?"

She stepped onto the oriental carpet. 

"Do you want to come and sit down?" he asked. "I made you some tea."

Sasha clamboured into the other wing chair, inspecting the contents of the mahogany table between them. Levi had laid out the tea service which included a small pink cup and saucer.

"Tea isn't for _kids_ ," Sasha frowned at him quizzically.

"This tea is appropriate for children," Levi encouraged. "It has camomile and warm milk and a little bit of honey in it."

Sasha cocked her head, watching as Levi picked up his teacup carefully by the rim, and drank.

"It has a handle," she ventured helpfully.

Levi set the cup down carefully. "When I was little," he said evenly, "I was quite poor. The first teacup I had to drink from was a cheaply-made teacup. When I picked it up by the handle, the handle broke off, and it smashed onto the floor."

"That sucks," Sasha commiserated.

Imitating Levi, she placed her small fingers around the rim of her cup, and carefully took a sip.

Levi had a book on his lap. "I think," he said, "that you're old enough to listen to a story. And this," he showed the book to Sasha, "is about the very best bowman that ever lived."

Sasha craned to see. On the cover of the book was a bearded man in a green suit, drawing back a longbow.

"Oh," she gasped, eyes widening, "Who's that?"

"That is Robin Hood," Levi said gravely. He opened the book, and in slow, careful sentences so Sasha could follow along, he began to read aloud about Sherwood Forest, Robin Hood and his band of merry men.

Sasha felt very grown-up indeed.

__________

Armin and Jean dropped Mikasa off in front of her apartment building, and drove back to the factory district. Sasha, they had been told at Parent's Night, was a considerate and helpful little girl. A bit gregarious at times, very inquisitive, and loved snack time. She was very musical, and needed extra help sometimes with her shoelaces.

Armin drove. Jean reached out, tucking a strand of blond hair behind Armin's ear. "You're so beautiful," he told his lover softly.

Armin said nothing. 

_Are we a family now?_

"What's wrong, doll?"

_Do you ever think about the future? Oh, yuck, no. That's so…needy._

"Sasha asked me if we're a family, now."

"She…"

"I'm just telling you. You should know that she asked me that. Just in case…"

"In case what?"

"In case she asks you as well. She caught me a little unawares."

"Did you tell her, 'yes'?"

"No," Armin snorted. "Why would I tell her that? I'd never tell her _anything_ like that. It's not my place."

He pulled into his parking spot in the underground at the loft.

They got out, taking theancient elevator up to the loft.

An awkward frisson hung between them, like static. Armin turned the key in the lock, stepping inside. 

He walked into the kitchen, looking for the kettle. He'd scribbled a note on the countertop, to himself. 

 _Roman aqueducts and other marvels of antiquity. 9 p.m._ He'd been looking forward to that. And he'd been looking forward to painting the Spitfire airplane model he'd received from Amazon. He swallowed. Tried to still the ache of tears. Failed.

Jean's hazel eyes melted into concern. "Honey?"

Armin plunked his keys down onto the table beside the note.

Jean looked utterly baffled.

"I'm not charismatic," Armin said. "You are charismatic. Everyone wants to be near you. To be with you. You call yourself a flake, and a loser and a dork, but you're not, and you _know_ you're not. Not really. You're talented, and brave, and full of life. You just…live every day to the fullest, you love being around people. People love you. You're Kirschy. _Everybody_ loves Kirschy."

Jean frowned, still uncertain of where this was headed. He touched Armin gently on the shoulder.

"I'm good," Armin swiped at his eyes, "in a crisis. And let's face it. Our relationship has sort of been one long crisis."

"I'm so sorry…oh, Armin…."

"No, don't. That's not what I mean. Now…now that you're really healing…how…I mean, what now? Because I'm not what I seem to be." Armin's voice had risen, hoarse and hurting.

"God, Armin…"

"What I am, inside, is a tentative, frightened, asthmatic gay little person with allergic twitches, who cried himself, or herself, to sleep every night as a kid and…" Armin was shaking now, "and I think, because of all that, I would make a good parent, a caring spouse…and I just want a chance to do that, and we've never even _talked_ about it…"

"Jesus Christ," Jean strode across the kitchen, pulling Armin into his arms, enfolding him.

"Armin," he said fiercely into the soft blond hair, "If I asked you…oh God, what would you say?"

__________

"Thank you," Mikasa said simply.

Levi stood in her vestibule, buttoning his wool coat. "You're welcome, Doctor Kuroda."

"Sasha respects you. You are very authentic with her."

"I don't know very many children. I'm not very engaging."

He looked up, meeting her eyes. She regarded him with the frank, level expression that he was growing fond of. Mikasa Ackerman was a blunt individual, much like Levi himself. However, whereas Levi felt devoid of grace, Mikasa had it in abundance.

"Thank you for the use of your library," he nodded. "good night."

"Good night."

He got as far as the corner of the street before he realized he'd left his gloves on her hall table. He scowled and turned around, retracing his steps.

He pressed the buzzer for her apartment, murmuring his apologies into the microphone. She admitted him.

He walked back down the hall, and was about to raise his hand to knock, when the door opened. 

He entered.

She had changed into a soft sweater, her hair braided into a loose queue. 

"Levi," she nodded politely, then raised her head, meeting the hooded grey eyes. 

She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. 

"I would invite you," she said slowly, "to read with me for perhaps an hour, but I assume that of course, you are otherwise engaged."

Levi Ackerman's mouth had gone dry. He swallowed, and tasted a strange heat.

"I am not," he whispered, "otherwise engaged."

__________

A number of the firefighters from West Central belonged to the boxing gym where Krista Arlert trained her clients, including Jean Kirschstein. Armin sat on the risers at the gym, waiting for Jean to shower. His sister joined him, plunking herself down and kissing him on the cheek.

"How's my bro today?"

"Fine, good."

"Uh-oh. The lopsided smile. That's like, the non-smile smile…" she prodded him in the ribs gently.

"I dunno. I'm feeling a bit off-balance, I guess."

"Why?" Krista breathed, "Jean's doing great!"

Armin chuckled, peering at Krista. "I know. I just…Sasha asked me yesterday if we're a family."

"Awww," Krista smiled. "what did you say?"

"What could I say? Jean was so incredible with me when, ummm…he didn't want to rush me, you know? But I know my own mind. I know what I want. I just hope…"

"Don't," Krista shook him gently. "you don't get to do that. Not anymore. Armin," her sea-blue eyes met his matching pair. "listen to me. Look. Look, you see Ymir there?"

Armin looked across the gym to where the tall, powerful Icelander was performing a deadlift. "Man," he remarked, "she is something. I've never worked with anyone like her."

"Yeah, try dating her! I would never have imagined myself…like, squeaky little Historia…dating a woman like that. She's powerful, graceful, successful. But listen, here's the thing…"

She turned to look at Armin pointedly, "I'm a good catch, too. I'm sincere. I have a good heart. I take care of myself. I'm a good listener. Ymir is wonderful and yeah, I'm speechless sometimes, but…there's no reason for her not to choose me. I am good enough.

Like, honey…you and Ross and me…we're like pictures. Pretty pictures, that someone has torn out of a book. That's the value we've all assigned to ourselves. But we're not pictures. We're a story. Each of us. And it's still being written. It didn't stop when you were bullied, or when mom hit Ross, or when I ran away. Our accomplishments are real; they're not smoke and glitter. _You are incredible_. Jean is hot. He's charismatic. But Armin, he loves you. _He chose you._ Give him some credit."

__________

Water running. Jean woke. The light in their bedroom was off, but the light in the ensuite bathroom was on. Armin was in there, sitting on the vanity, his feet in the sink, a bright trail of ruby blood snaking down his leg.

Jean sat bolt upright, heart hammering. "Baby?"

"Sssh, go back to sleep. It's okay."

Jean turned on the light. He leapt out of bed, bracing himself in the bathroom doorway. Armin sat, glasses perched on his nose, his paramedic's kit open on the floor. He held a gauze pad to his knee, pressing.

"Hi," he smiled wanly.

"What's going on?"

"I got a little puncture at work. No big deal. It just needs a stitch or two."

"A stitch?" Jean's almond eyes widened in alarm, watching the thin ribbon of blood run into the sink. "Who…can I call someone?"

Armin snickered. "Who, like 9-1-1?"

He lifted the gauze, revealing an L-shaped nick. 

"Ah, good. It's stopped bleeding."

He threaded his suture.

"Ew," Jean gasped. _"Fuck!"_

"Go back to bed."

"No! Does it hurt?"

"Nope? It's numb. I gave myself a little shot."

Jean approached.

Armin wore one of his old t-shirts, with nothing underneath. Jean watched, fascinated, as Armin applied three small sutures to close the wound. He washed his knee carefully, and his leg.

Jean was in awe. This tough, tenacious, practical, gorgeous little creature wanted him. Forever.

Armin fitted a sponge ring over the injury, wrapping it in elastic bandage.

"All done!" he favoured Jean with a small smile.

Jean took Armin's lovely face in his hands, the question between them unspoken. Slowly, Jean bent his head, finding Armin's parted lips and leaving a soft kiss.

Armin bent his head, nuzzling.

And then, a soft word: "Yes. The answer…would be yes."

Jean gathered Armin up off the counter, gently. 

He took Armin to bed and lay him on his back, one arm carefully holding back the injured limb. 

"Are you sure, baby?"

"Yeah, yes…"

Jean left the light on, watching the wheat-pale hair splay onto the pillow. Drank in the tired, dreamy blue eyes. Watched the pupils dilate as he lifted the t-shirt, smoothing lube-slicked fingers over Armin's full balls, stroking his velvety flesh, sinking fingers inside of him. He'd never watched Armin's face this intently. He watched the sweet eyes mist over with lust, widen, and shutter closed when Jean pushed inside of him, then float open again. 

"Look at me," Jean breathed, cupping Armin's face softly, "Look at me when I fuck you. Give me… _ah_ …give me all of you… _all of you_ …"

_Yes._

 


	35. Sharps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains mention of past suicide, mention of past physical abuse and homophobic slurs.

JUNE 2015

_Congratulations, Graduate!_

_My name is: Sasha K._

_My favourite food is: Potatoes and blue snow cones_

_I help my family at home by: I help Mama set the table. I help Levi dust and make tea. I help Armin do the laundry. I feed Kleenex and I help my Daddy make dinner. I am busy._

_My favourite activity is: Archery Tots and playing with Nadine Lee._

_I am thankful for: My big family and also Robin Hood._

 "Daddy," she mouthed the word around a yawn that stretched her small mouth wide. "I would make the _best_ Robin Hood."

It was the end of June. Jean tucked the thin summer quilt around his daughter, dimming the butterfly lamp that illuminated her room. Armin had painted the walls periwinkle blue, and made her sheer pink bed curtains. The small room glowed a soft mauve.

As a newborn, Sasha had fit perfectly into the crook of one arm. This afternoon, she'd graduated from kindergarten.

A nostalgic smile touched Jean's lips.

"You can be in Robin Hood, too," Sasha continued. "You could be the minstrel, Alan-a-Dale."

"That's a good idea," Jean smoothed the auburn hair. Sasha yawned again, fighting to keep her eyes open. 

"Who would be Little John?" Jean asked her.

"Well, Nadine." This seemed very obvious to Sasha. "Little John is Robin Hood's best friend. Nadine is my best friend."

"Okay. And what about Friar Tuck?"

Sasha giggled. "Uncle Rocky! Uncle Rocky loves food and he's loud and happy."

Sasha turned onto her side, clutching Pandora, her rubber pteradactyl. "Armin can be Maid Marion. A Maid Marion that would be able to fight."

"I see," Jean said softly. "not Mama?"

" _No_ , Daddy. Mama is good King Richard. She's coming back to save merry England. And Levi is going to be the Sheriff of Nottingham."

"Why?" Jean frowned.

"Levi isn't a mean person. He's nice to Mama and me. But he would be a very good pretend bad guy. He has a scowly face and he sounds sort of sneaky."

Sasha looked at Jean. "But it's just pretend, Daddy. 'Cause we don't know any bad people. Not real ones. Do we?"

"No, honey."

__________

Jean Kirschstein credited Krista Arlert, in large part, for rebuilding him, body and mind. Krista had refused to see Jean as a limited individual, despite his artificial hip, his broken leg, his fractured ribs. Slowly, consistently, she'd challenged her patient. Jean was too young, too full of life, not to push boundaries.

Jean had progressed from taking shaky steps between the parallel bars at the hospital, sweat-soaked and teeth clenched, to walking, and finally to running. 

Krista had attended Jean's appointments with his surgical follow-up team where he'd answered questions about hip replacement, his fitness and his flexibility. The hip was a prototype, specifically designed for long-term placement in younger candidates. It had been Mikasa Kuroda's gamble, and it had paid off.

Jean had nearly full range of motion in the joint, had begun running regularly, and weight training at the boxing gym. He'd packed on ten pounds of muscle over his seven-month recovery period. 

Krista Arlert was pondering this fact as she held up training pads for her client, who might soon be her brother-in-law, in the gym's boxing ring. 

Jean threw a rhythmic series of punches, backing Krista up. "Good," she nodded. "Again."

Krista glanced around. Oh, there was Ymir, working out with the heavy bag. Krista watched the play of muscle beneath the freckled skin, fluid and powerful. Ymir was a pure athlete, intense and focused. 

Krista sighed appreciatively. Then, her small body spun, the rubber mat slamming up to meet her chest, knocking the wind out of her. She tried to inhale, but breath wouldn't come. Jean was leaning over her, calling her name plaintively.

Krista rolled slowly, bringing her knees to her chest. Gasped. Laughed.

"I'm okay…it's okay," she wheezed.

Jean's long, angular face was full of mortification. "Oh _fuck_ , Krista, I'm _so_ sorry!"

Krista snickered, sitting up. Jean squatted in front of her. Then, Ymir Faltskög was kneeling beside them, asking Krista if she was alright.

"It's good, it's all good," Krista reassured her girlfriend. "It's my fault, I looked away from the punch."

"Oh, Jesus," Jean shook his head, unmollified. "I just decked a girl. _I hit a girl."_

"Looks that way," Ymir grinned at him. 

Jean blanched.

Krista shook her head, straightening her collared sport shirt. 

"How about trying out someone that hits back?" Ymir crossed her arms, appraising Jean Kirschstein.

Krista nodded. "Yes! Do you have time, Ymi?"

"For what?" Jean was aghast.

"We're going to get you sparring, Jean. You're ready. And no more apologies," she said firmly. "I was distracted, not your fault at all."

Ymir chuckled, sizing up her prey. "I'll go easy on you, for now."

__________

"Ow!" Sasha piped up. 

"It doesn't hurt, Sash," Jean regarded his daughter, as she ate her breakfast cereal. "Needles only pinch a little some of the time. Alot of the time, they don't really hurt at all. And Armin is very gentle."

Jean stood at the kitchen counter, Armin efficiently poking him in the belly, administering a B12 supplement that was part of Jean's recovery regimen. He'd also had cortisone shots in his knee. Armin finished up, dropping the used hypodermic into a sealed yellow plastic container marked 'Sharps'. The pharmacy collected these when they delivered Jean's supplements and compounds, special-ordered to Krista's instructions.

"Well," Sasha declared, shovelling in a spoonful of Cheerios, "I'm glad my vitamins are chewy, not stabby."

Armin plunked two gummy dinos onto the table. "Here you go."

"Daddy?"

"Yes Sashmo?"

"Why do you have one purple eye?"

"Yes, Daddy," Armin's eyes twinkled. "why is that?"

Jean looked freshly mortified.

Armin leaned in, nuzzling and nipping his earlobe. "That'll teach you to hit my sister."

__________

Summer time. The city of Toronto was alive with colour. Flower beds in lush green parks, the bustling waterfront, sailboats showing stark white against the blue of Lake Ontario. Pretty girls in ice-cream-coloured summer dresses, frothy and light. Pretty, pretty girls.

Alex had met Armin last summer. She'd reminded him of Robbie Crabtree...

SPRING 1990

Robbie Crabtree had been inAlex's grade ten science class. Robbie wore pastel shirts, and had blond hair. Robbie had caught Alex in the school washroom, pricking his finger to check his insulin levels. Alex had been ashamed, but Robbie had put an arm around him, telling him not to feel badly. Alex had felt a hot rush of blood to his face.

The next day, Robbie had followed Alex into the bathroom again, watching while Alex had used his blood glucose meter, and had held his hand until the bell rang. 

Alex found that he'd begun looking forward to his trips to the bathroom after lunch. One time, he'd allowed Robbie to try the meter. Robbie's blood sugar level was within the acceptable range. Robbie didn't have diabetes. Alex did. Alex had diabetes, asthma and wore glasses.

Alex had kissed Robbie one rainy afternoon in the washroom. Their noses had bumped and their teeth clicked. But Robbie hadn't run away, even though it was awkward and horrible.

"Be careful," Sandy had said to Alex that evening, "you know what will happen." Sandy looked out for Alex.

 _Why did you kiss me i'm so ugly_ Alex had scribbled in pencil on a tiny scrap of paper, and passed it to Robbie in class.

 _You're not ugly_ Robbie had written back. And, he'd written _xxx_. Kisses.

Alex had squished the note into his fist and his groin had felt full and hot.

Robbie got detention, for being late, again. Alex snapped an elastic band at Mrs. Hillbrand's rear end to earn himself a detention as well.

That afternoon, Robbie and Alex had both stayed after class, sneaking looks at one another. At four-thirty, Mrs. Hillbrand had risen, told them they were free to leave, and exited the classroom. 

Robbie had closed the door, leaned against it and unbuttoned his shirt. Underneath his shirt was a little pink camisole top, with a satin rose sewn onto the neckline.

Alex had kissed Robbie again, messily and too hard. He'd pressed his hips against Robbie's, fingering the pretty camisole. Robbie wore scent, faint and sweet. Alex had felt the sticky surge between his legs before he could stop it.

They had been caught. His father and Robbie's parents had been called in to meet with the vice-principal. They'd sat on hard chairs in the vice-principal's office and had been made to recite every excruciating detail of their encounter. Robbie had cried, tears rolling down his cheeks, hunched over, his fist protectively closing the front of his shirt over the camisole rose.

Alex had sat, still as stone while the vice-principal spoke, watching the vein in his father's forehead thicken, and pulse.

__________

Alex had tried to grab the railing when his father had shoved him down the basement stairs. He'd nearly succeeded, spinning off the wall twice and falling onto the cement floor. The kicks that were landed to his ribs and abdomen had hurt, but not as much as the cruel, horrible names his father had called him. _faggot, homo, filth, deviant, mistake._

Later, he'd lain there in the dark, watching the light fade from the cobweb-covered basement window, feeling the trickle of blood ooze out of his nose, across his cheek, and onto the floor. He waited until the house was quiet, and then crept upstairs to find Sandy.

"See," Sandy had admonished him, "See? I told you this would happen."

"Robbie was crying," Alex winced, "it was awful. He's so sweet and they made him cry."

Alex had peered into the mirror, swirling a washcloth in the sink. Gingerly, he dabbed at his swollen, broken nose and the cuts on his face.

"Forget Robbie," Sandy had hissed. "You don't need Robbie. Boys like Robbie will get you in trouble. Do you want Daddy to beat you some more? You won't have any friends. Folk will bully you. You're asking for hurt, Alex."

Alex had squeezed his eyes shut. It was no good. He still saw it; the sweet, little pink rose on Robbie's camisole. It was as though, in that moment, the whole world had _made sense._ Robbie was as much a girl as a boy; sweet and pink and lovely and Robbie had said that he, Alex, wasn't ugly and wrote xxx.

"I mean it," Sandy's voice was low, and a little menacing. "You stay away from Robbie Crabtree. He's bad for you. And daddy says he'll beat the faggot out of you."

Alex began to cry. He hung his head. It wasn't that Sandy was right. Sandy was wrong. But Sandy was stronger.

The next day, word went around the school that Robbie Crabtree had hung himself. Alex curled in his bed, crying, making horrid animal sounds through his broken nose. 

Sandy had vowed that Alex would never hurt that way again. Ever.

__________

2013

Alex had a job as a pharmacy deliveryman. He enjoyed working by himself, driving around the city. Often, he drove to the city's east side, to Church street. He'd park his car, watching the girls. For many years, that's all he did, was watch. He was too intimidated by Sandy to do more. But then, he'd seen D'Andrée. She was small, dark-haired, and very pretty. She wore a flowered skirt, ankle boots and a little white blouse. Silky, like Robbie's rose. Sweet. And like Robbie, a soft Adam's apple bobbed in her throat. Her chest was flat, and her voice was deep. And yet, D'Andrée was a girl. A sweet, lovely, lost girl that no one wanted. She'd sat in Alex's car, talking with him. He'd offered her forty dollars, just for a kiss. Just a kiss. Her dark eyes had been sad and empathetic when she'd accepted the crumpled bills.

Alex's heart had nearly exploded. She'd been pliant and lush, the soft fabric of her sweet clothes a stark contrast to the angular body beneath. He'd placed his hand on the inside of her thigh, the flowered skirt rustling softly. He'd made a wounded sound in his throat. He'd remembered no more.

He'd woken up, face down on his bed. His father had died of liver disease in 1998, and just he and Sandy lived in the house, now. Alex had never set foot in the basement again. Only Sandy went down there. 

Alex had risen stiffly from the bed, staggered into the bathroom, flicked on the light and looked into the mirror. A cry of horror was torn from his lips. Bright blood crusted the front of his delivery uniform and was smeared onto his arms and cheeks.

"What happened?" he'd cried, facing the mirror.

From the depths of the mirror, Sandy's face, cold and impassive, had looked back at him.

"I've taken care of things," Sandy said smoothly. "I will always take care of you, Alex. Keep you away from people that will hurt you. And it's time I began to do a much better job of that."

Alex's face was no longer his own; Sandy was back. His limbs were no longer his own; they were Sandy's to command. And it was Sandy that had systematically washed his face, scrubbed his nails, burned his clothes and his bedding, and erased any trace of D'Andrée Bishop.

__________

JUNE 2014

Sandy was as charismatic as Alex was awkward. Sandy enjoyed getting ready for an evening out. He'd showered and given himself a flawless shave. He had a hairpiece, which filled out his hairline, since Alex had thinning hair, though he was only forty. He removed his thick glasses and put in his contacts. He applied moisturizer, and careful makeup, minimizing the effect of Alex's crooked nose. His posture was graceful and erect, whereas Alex hunched and bobbed like a kicked dog. Sandy dressed impeccably: well-cut suits, crisp shirts. A hint of expensive cologne. Italian leather shoes. Tonight, he was attending a gallery opening in Yorkville.

Alex had seen her when he'd delivered sinus medicine to the gallery owner earlier that afternoon. He'd watched her through a doorway. She had a round little bottom, curved back and blond hair, falling to her shoulders. 

"Come tonight," the gallery owner had said to her. "please, darling. You look so lovely. It's time for you to circulate a bit, no?"

He'd given her a pass.

Robbie. So like Robbie…

Alex had stolen a pass on his way out. He made his mind up not to let Sandy find out about her. As if.

__________

 "My name," she'd said softly, "is Armin."

She'd held out a hand. It was a strong, capable hand. Sandy had accepted it, raised it to his lips and brushed it with a kiss.

"And do you like art, Armin?" he'd asked smoothly.

A bright smile. Dimples. Her eyes were not opaque, but rather a deep, flecked sea blue. Her brows, strong and perfectly shaped, were honey-blond. One of them quirked up at him.

"Well, I'm actually more of a war history buff. But the curator's a friend, so I thought I'd have a look. You?"

"Ah," Sandy smiled back, "Some of these pieces were used on the set of a film I'm producing."

She wore a silk sheath dress. There was a silver dragonfly clip in her spun-gold hair. Her ensemble was lovely, and yet there was something demure and tentative about her. No wonder Alex had found her intoxicating. But no matter. Sandy would fix things. 

"May I interest you," Sandy had asked Armin softly, "in dinner next week?"

__________

JUNE 2015

 Jean looked in the mirror, grinning ruefully. Picked up his phone and dialled.

"Hey," Armin answered.

"Hi baby." Jean paused. "How's your day going?"

"So far, so good. How was rehearsal?"

Jean sighed. "Arm, I'd rather not play with a black eye tonight."

Armin laughed. "You're the one that agreed to spar with Ymir! What did you expect?"

"It looks awful."

"You slugged my sister,' Armin teased.

"That was a horrible accident," Jean sulked, "I will feel awful about it forever."

"I'm teasing you, baby. Did you know Ymir used to hang me up on the locker room hooks and just leave me there?"

"Armin, how do I put makeup on my eye? Can we fix this?"

The door buzzed.

"Hang on," Jean went over to the intercom. "Hello?"

"Hi, Jean," the concierge spoke. "Urquhardt's Pharmacy here for you."

"Cool, send him up."

Jean glanced at the time, and spoke into the phone. "Arm, I gotta go. The pharmacy guy's here for the sharps and I have to pick up Sash soon."

"Okay," Armin said, "make sure they sent the chewable kid vitamins, not the swallowing ones. Sasha gags."

The phone went dead.

Jean opened the loft apartment door and stepped back inside to begin gathering his gear for the evening.

A stooped little man with thick glasses entered. "Hello? You here, Jean?"

Jean looked up. "Oh, hey Alex!" he smiled. "Sharps are there on the table there. Have you got the chewy vitamins for Sasha?"

 


	36. Amazing Grace

Pot of coffee. Blue Toronto PD mug, handle turned to the right. One teaspoon, beside. Small yellow pitcher of cream. Two crumpets, toasted, with currant spread. Orange cotton napkin.

Chris Guthrie laid out all of the items for Lesley's breakfast, with ordered precision. He exhaled. It had been a very long time since he'd taken care of his lover's needs in this fashion. Everything _exactly so._  

The flip side of genius is chaos. Chris Guthrie's lyrical mind was home to both. Chris had spent the first two years of a College music scholarship, stoned. At the time, it had been the only way for him to slow the spinning blades inside of his head enough to allow the music to come through. He had pulled marathon sessions, completing two weeks' worth of course work in 48 hours, and then collapsing, insensate, onto Jean Kirschstein's couch and blacking out. His recordings had gotten airplay on Humber One, and then on CBC Radio. He'd won two Provincial music prizes by the age of eighteen.

_How can he do that when he's stoned all the time?_

_Nothing ever bothers Face._

_He's just...chill._

In fact, it had taken a monumental effort of will for Chris to learn mindfulness; to put down the heavy load of past and future - that knapsack full of rocks - and live fully in the present moment.

Chris Guthrie's sweet, sanguine face had masked a churning chaos.

He'd met Lesley after he'd gotten busted for possession at Rivendell Music Festival. It was his first offence. Chris had gotten probation, and had been court-ordered into a mentoring program, Straight Horizons. The program paired up first-time offenders with Police Volunteer mentors. 

Lesley had shown up to their first mentoring session sporting a rumpled suit, a face like thunder, and a cold coffee. He had the course materials with him, unread and still neatly shrink-wrapped in plastic.

Chris had watched, with quiet amusement, as the tall detective had opened the package, the orange-and-white pamphlets and workbook spilling out, smelling shiny and new.

Lesley's phone had rung.

"Hastings."

Lesley had listened, barked something into the phone, and hung up.

Chris had looked up, champagne eyes regarding the detective. He smiled.

"Hello,  _Hastings_ ," he'd said. "I'm Chris."

Lesley had everything Chris wanted. He was dishevelled, grumpy and real. He was also kind, soft-hearted and incredibly thorough in bed. 

Lesley Hastings had at his core a focused calm; an ordered discipline. Chris wanted what Lesley had. He wanted that strength of direction to envelop him. 

Thus, he'd followed Lesley home to the house in Riverdale one evening. He'd stood in the doorway, rain-soaked, guitar case on his back.

There had been no misunderstanding when Lesley had fixed him with penetrating dark eyes and asked, "You want someone to draw some lines for you, boy?"

"I want _you_ to."

Lesley Hastings had created a framework for Chris. Strong and safe. Lesley was the house, Chris was the dancing light within. The spinning blades in Chris's head had stilled. The music had begun, in earnest.

Chris was perched at the table with the newspaper when Lesley had come down for breakfast. Chris rose, approached Lesley and embraced him. "Morning, Papi."

Lesley seemed genuinely surprised to see the breakfast spread; their dynamic had given way to a more subtle interplay over the years, the physical tokens falling away.

"You make me this?"

"Yes."

Lesley looked from the table setting, back to Chris. He pushed back the unruly, springy hair and planted a warm kiss onto his lover's forehead. "Thank you for making my breakfast, Chris."

Chris smiled, eyes closed.

"You feed the dog?"

"Oops."

As they ate, Chris spread the newspaper onto the table. Snorted. The newspaper spread featured three slight, blond individuals. Victims of a serial killer that sought out male victims, in feminine presentation. Two of the families had offered comment on their departed loved one. The third family had drawn attention, for refusing to accept the chosen gender of their child; they'd dressed 'him' in a suit at the funeral. Mentioned in the article, near the bottom and without a photo, was  D'Andrée Bishop.

"Did you read this?" Chris didn't look up.

"I don't need to read that."

"How come D'Andrée Bishop has no tribute?"

Chris frowned, looking at the faces of the young, white victims. "I guess no one wants to read about a black trans girl working on the street. Might ruin their morning waffles."

Les stopped chewing, put down his crumpet and took a slow swallow of coffee. 

"You went to her people," Chris continued. "I remember that morning. I tied your tie. How come they don't come for her?"

"They can't," Les said tightly. He didn't want to say more. In visiting the Bishop home, he'd developed a clear understanding of why D'Andrée had run away. "She has no one. Tonight the city will collect her from the coroner and lay her in a civic grave."

"What about a funeral?" Chris pressed.

"I don't know."

"So no one speaks for her? That's it?"

Lesley stood, palms on the table, leaning toward Chris. "I will not let that baby girl down," he said quietly. "And not you, either. You hear me?"

__________

The first moment of yearning that Armin had ever experienced with regard to Jean had come when she'd been a passenger in his Metro Cab and had looked forward, watching the tapered, hazel eyes flick up to the rear-view mirror too often, and the long, strong hands grip the steering wheel.

_I want him to touch me._

She'd shaken her head, amused at the thought of this cab driver she'd only just met pushing his hands up under her skirt, fingers sliding into her panties. The shake of her head had only solidified the fantasy.

It was no less real now; waking up that Saturday morning, summer rain spattering the windows. Rolling over so that her face pressed against the warm, clean cotton of Jean's t-shirt. She parted her lips slightly, breathing in his warm, citrusy natural body scent.

_I could stay like this for hours._

And she dozed, floating through dreams, fitting herself to him, tangling her limbs with his, easing a leg over his new hip so that the silken crotch of her panties pressed against his cock. 

He stirred slightly, opening one eye to admit the slate grey morning. Shut it again. He knew Armin was half-awake, dreamy and aroused, as his small blond lover squirmed in her sleep, seeking friction. His fingers grazed her bare back, slipped inside the silk panties, fingers spreading wide to trap one round buttock perfectly.

She sighed, connecting to him as they both nudged against wakefulness. She wondered if he knew how deeply she still felt each and every touch. The fingers inside her panties stroked the soft skin of her bottom, sliding over to caress the seam of her ass tenderly.

"Oh," she moaned against his tee, so quietly that she's sure he didn't hear her.

He shifted his hips, his other hand sliding between their bodies, pushing his erection against hers, the silk of the panties between them.

No one spoke. A word would have shattered the haze, announced officially that it was morning, made way for chaos and coffee and shaving.

His breath deepened, and he lifted his hips in a slow rhythm, heat sparking in his groin. The hand on her bottom turned slightly, gathering the silk into a fist, tugging gently. She let him pull down her panties, and they stretched between her spread thighs like candy floss.

Armin took a slow breath in, and exhaled. Against her ear, the hammering of his heart. One of his arms was across her shoulders, the hand outstretched, fingers protectively entwined in her hair. See? it seemed to say, I will hold you sweetly and all the while I will do unspeakably hot and naughty things to you with my other hand.

He twisted the cap off of the glide they used, spurted it onto his fingers, and those long fingers were leisurely stroking the soft pad of flesh just behind her balls. An ache, hard as a hot stone, was growing deep within her, pulsing and fed by those caresses, so that she began to pant, one small fist balling the tee at his shoulder.

He moved his had between their bellies again, shiny-slick fingers catching the head of her cock, tracing it, pressing it against his own, encircling both of them.

Armin was stock still, savouring the sheer, hot pleasure. Her belly knotted, bottom quivering as Jean began stroking in earnest, wrist twisting at the top of each stroke, thumb nudging the soft ridge beneath her glans. The callouses on his fingertips scraped her skin deliciously, and he broke the stillness, murmuring into her hair, "Come, baby doll…"

She did; on long slow breaths, soaking his tee, knees working as she surged against him, her first words of that summer morning: "Jean… _Jean!_ "

__________

Armin dug into the Urquhardt's pharmacy bag, placing the contents onto the bathroom counter; fresh syringes, B12 supplements, Cortizone, gummy dinos, and a little compounder's pot of fresh, hand-made cosmetics. Lip colour.

She smiled. Jean had ordered her a treat. She twisted the lid off. Normally, she wore golds, plums, coppers or iridescents. This was a new hue; a fresh, sweet pink.

"Huh," she said softly and then called, "thank you!"

"What?"

She emerged from the bathroom, her pout a soft, beguiling pink. "I said," she turned to him, "thank you for the lippy."

Jean looked confused. "It's pretty on you," he said. "but it wasn't me."

Armin fetched the pot from the counter, turning it over. _"Baby Roses,"_ she read the colour name. "maybe Krista ordered it for me."

__________

"Dad," five-year-old Faz Nasir regarded his father warily, "You didn't shave. Did you forget?"

Detective Tariq Nasir smiled, white teeth framed by his dark scrub of beard.

"No, I didn't forget."

"It's mommy's birthday. You should shave."

Tariq rubbed a hand along his jawline. "No. When I shave, the baby cries."

Gari, age ten, snickered. "It's because she doesn't recognize you."

"Get your shoes on," Tariq waved a hand at his sons. 

Moonie Nasir regarded herself in the mirror, one arm around her seven-month-old daughter, Millicent, who sat on the counter playing with the rubber drain-stop.

_I want to have my kids young, so we can grow together._

Millicent gurgled, holding her arms up for Tariq, who had entered the bathroom.

"I'm thirty-two," Moonie sighed. "when did this happen?"

Tariq leaned in, kissing the soft, freshly-scrubbed cheek. As was her usual routine, Moonie wore no makeup, dark eyes dancing playfully beneath her colourful hijab.

"You look beautiful," he smiled. "you have a younger guy to keep you on your toes!"

Moonie laughed.

The Nasirs went to the Green Rhino in the factory district, for lunch. The boys played with their sister, allowing Moonie to enjoy her lunch, rather than shoveling in haphazard bites. Afterward, they strolled, looking in the shop windows. 

Millicent screeched at the seagulls strutting around on the sidewalk, fighting over caramel-corn.

"I want to go into the pharmacy," Moonie pulled on Tariq's hand. "I need some things."

__________

Alex was friends with Toronto jazz musician Jean Kirschstein. Jean lived in a huge, artsy loft on Sina Court. Alex delivered compounds and medicines to that address, and picked up the sharps. He delivered things during the day. Jean Kirschstein called him 'dude' and 'buddy'. He asked about Alex's health. He'd given Alex a Cherry Kirsch CD. 

"I like jazz," Alex had stammered to Jean once, '"although I like blues better."

Jean Kirschstein had started calling him 'Jake', John Belushi's character from _The Blues Brothers._ He called Jean Kirschstein 'Elwood'.

He hadn't expected to like Jean. He'd recognized the name 'Arlert' when Krista, the physiotherapist, had begun ordering supplements for Jean from Urquhardt's Pharmacy, where he worked. Krista Arlert had a wholistic health store. Armin Arlert was her brother. And Armin was beautiful. Sandy was wrong about Armin. Armin would never have caused any harm to befall Alex. Armin would have loved him and been sweet and kind, just like Robbie had been. But now, it was too late. Armin belonged to Jean Kirschstein. 

_You gave Armin a gift._

_No Sandy, no I didn't._

_Don't lie to me, Alex. You gave Armin some lip gloss._

Sandy's eyes looked back at Alex, from the depths of the mirror in the employee bathroom at Urquhardt's Pharmacy.

_If you try to give Armin another present, I will poison it._

Sandy stuck around all afternoon. He slouched and simpered, the same way Alex did, but the eyes peeking out from beneath his delivery cap were icy and calculating.

He went into the manager's office, to check for the afternoon delivery slips. He looked through the mirrored, one-way glass onto the pharmacy floor. He froze, one hand raised to pick the delivery slips from their box.

Eyes and nose. Dark eyes, round eyes, straight nose. Eyes and nose.

There was a man standing in the aisle, with Toyeh's eyes and nose. _Eyes and nose._ The man was jogging a baby on his hip. A small child was thrusting a foam rubber water toy upwards at him, asking permission to buy it.

Toyeh had a brother. Or a cousin. No, a brother. So much like her that they could be twins. Perhaps they were.

He hadn't called Toyeh since the night at _Sharq Tanq_ when Titano Delbello had trashed the bar. They had argued. He had seen something in Toyeh that had intimidated him. He'd composed a few text messages to her, but never sent them.

Perhaps this was just the excuse he needed to call her.

 _Hi there, I think I saw your brother in the_ …wait. Yes, that could work. He hadn't told Toyeh he was a film producer. he'd told Toyeh he was a chemist. Yes, a chemist. _I think I saw your brother in the pharmacy today…_

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialled.

__________

Tariq's phone rang. Specifically, his second phone. The one he kept in his breast pocket. The phone covered in bedazzled rhinestones.

"Shit!" he jumped. Moonie looked at him. His eyes were wide, jaw set.

"Please take the baby, Moonie. It's work. I have to take this…"

He pulled the phone from his pocket, striding away from his family before he spoke into it softly, "Hello?"

Sandy stared through the security glass, eyes narrowing. Fascinated.

Tariq Nasir walked outside. "Hello?"

"You never called me, Sweetheart."

Tariq's heart slowed, as a sniper's would. He hit two buttons on the phone, a record and a patch key.

A little breathless: "Who is this?"

"It's Sandy, Toyeh. You know who it is."

"Oh yeah, I know," Toyeh replied. "and I know you put your hands up on me, and I know that I'm done with you."

In a huge gamble, Tariq Nasir disconnected the call. He leaned against the brick wall of the pharmacy. He waited. Ten heartbeats. Twenty. Thirty.

The bejewelled phone rang again.

"I'm sorry. I am. It's just…."

Toyeh sat on the phone in silence.

"Well," Sandy said in a low, smooth voice, "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm not normally like that, Toyeh. People are not always _what they seem_. Are they?"

"What do you want?"

"Let me apologize. I'd like to get to know you better. There's far _more_ to you than I realized."

Toyeh paused, a few more agonized beats.

"Mmm hmmm," she sounded unconvinced. "if you want to come by work tomorrow, I'll be there. One drink. One."

Tariq hung up the phone without waiting for a reply. Exhaled.

"Got you, asshole," he swore softly.

The young detective picked up his other phone and dialed Les Hastings.

"Pud," his voice was terse.

"What?"

"I got made."

"Say again?"

"I got made. Just now."

"Fuck. How?"

"That," Tariq glanced around the street, "that I don't know yet. But I've set up a meet. And I have an idea."

__________

"Kirschy, bro."

"Hey Face." Jean stretched luxuriously on the couch. He was having a lazy afternoon with Armin, and was loathe to get up for rehearsal.

"I can't rehearse tonight," Chris said into the phone.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, bro. I just have to do a thing."

"A thing?"

"Yeah. You know, a thing."

The 'thing' Chris Guthrie had to do was to drive Lesley's old boat of a car onto the Queen Street Bridge. He pulled a generator out of the trunk, and set up his amplifier on the narrow sidewalk spanning the left side of the bridge. He took four orange safety cones out of the vehicle, and a roll of yellow police tape. Using these, he blocked off both ends of the small green truss bridge.

Then, he took his electric guitar out of it's case, tuned it and waited in the cold, grey June evening. Below, the crowded houses and apartments of the projects crouched in the drizzle. This was where D'Andrée Bishop had lived, and where she would now be laid to rest. Beyond the apartment block was the black, wrought-iron front gate of Mount Joy, the Greater Toronto civic cemetery. Here, Toronto buried her poor, her unidentified, her disenfranchised. Rows of grey, numbered markers dotted the grass. Some of the markers bore names. Many did not.

Lesley had told him that the coroner's wagon bearing the remains of D'Andrée Bishop was scheduled to arrive for interment at four-thirty p.m.

At ten minutes to five, the dark wagon rolled along Mersey Street, heading south. Chris raised his instrument, and began to play. He played for D'Andrée. He played _Amazing Grace_ , in the wild and virtuoso style of Jimi Hendrix. He played over the horns of the cars he'd stopped, over the shouts, over the traffic. As he played, people stepped out of their cars, and wandered out of their homes. 

A police cruiser had arrived, and two uniformed officers were approaching him. Chris Guthrie played until he was asked, and then forced, to leave the Queen Street Bridge. He played until he was certain that D'Andrée Bishop had heard the music, meant for her.

 


	37. Billy Keys

Jean Kirschstein's phone buzzed on the bedside table. He rolled over in bed, picking it up and squinting at the display. He didn't recognize the incoming number. 

"Hello?"

"Dude..." Chris sounded odd.

"Dude?" Jean sat up. 

"Kirschy, man. You're my call."

"Your….what?"

"My call. I'm in _jail_ , man!"

Jean clutched the phone. "What do you _mean_?"

"I'm in lockup. At 55 Division."

"Stop screwing around."

"They took my shoelaces."

Armin sat up and looked quizzically at Jean, static mussing his pale hair like a haystack. "Who is it?"

Jean lowered the phone, tapping the speaker. "It's Chris."

"Hi, Chris."

"Little dude. I'm in jail."

"What do you mean, you're in jail?" Armin said hoarsely.

"I had a little debate with the authorities. It didn't go that well. They found a concealed weapon on me, so I'm at 55 Division."

"What?" Armin and Jean exclaimed in unison.

"Yeah man, they searched me and found a tuning fork in my sock."

"That's bullshit! What were you doing? Like, just walking somewhere?"

"I blocked off the Queen Street Bridge. For musical purposes. With a little bit of police tape."

Jean flashed back to their College days; Chris playing _Blood Union Railroad_ on the roof of the Faculty building.

Jean frowned. "If you're at 55 Division…isn't Les there?"

"Yeah. He's upstairs." Chris replied conversationally.

"Well, why are you phoning me, then?"

"Lesley's busy," Chris said simply. "There's a big hoo-ha goin' on upstairs. He's busy."

"Does he know even you're there?"

"I dunno. I'll wait my turn to be processed. No one came for D'Andrée. I don't need anyone to come for me. I did what I did out of respect, and now I'll wait."

At the mention of D'Andrée Bishop's name, Armin's lips tightened into a worried line. 

"Armin," Chris continued, "Would you do me a square and go feed Kojak and let him out? You're the only one he'll let in the house if we're not there."

__________

Armin woke Sasha, and took her over to the house in Riverdale, to attend to Kojak before heading to Archery Tots. He had her wait on the porch, turned the key, and slowly eased the kitchen door open, all the while talking to the geriatric German Shepherd.

Kojak's sharp barks ceased upon recognizing Armin, and he shambled forward, tail wagging.

"It's okay now, Sash," Armin called. He knelt down, scratching his former nemesis behind the ears. "Poor old boy," he murmured. "You want some breakfast, old man?"

__________

Jean felt like he'd been up for hours by the time he got to the boxing gym. He didn't have a session with Krista that morning; he worked out with the heavy bag for a bit, then got onto the treadmill and popped in his earbuds. Some of Armin's workmates were training. Big Mike Zacharius. Levi. Ymir. Jean increased his speed, cranked the tunes, and ran. 

He watched Levi and Ymir spar on the mats. They were, Jean had come to learn, two of the most tenacious people he'd ever met. They squared off, circling one another warily. Jean didn't know much about the various martial arts, but it looked as though Levi and Ymir were engaged in a form which mixed striking and grappling. Whenever Jean sparred with Ymir, she pressed him hard, yet also stopped to correct his technique, and to have him repeat and learn combinations.

Here, there was no such quarter given. The engagement, which had begun with the firefighter and the EMT locking up, had quickly escalated into a flurry of kicks, punches, holds and throws. 

Jean watched, riveted, as each of the combatants struck harshly, parried, and separated. Ymir had a reach and weight advantage, however Levi Ackerman was fluid, quick and lethal. 

After a few rounds Ymir rested, hands on her knees, abdomen contracting and expanding as she fought for breath. 

"You've lost a step, runt." she rasped, wiping sweat from her brow with a forearm.

Levi circled the tall Icelander, nipping at her with short jabs. He raised his right arm, just a little too high, and was hurled onto his back.

"Hah!" he nodded, gasping. "Good. Good, Ymir."

She smiled, kicking him softly in the ribs, suffused with pride at Levi's praise. She held out her hand, pulling Levi to his feet.

Jean had stopped running, standing on the edges of his treadmill, one earbud dangling, fascinated by the sparring.

Levi ran a towel over his face, draped it around his shoulders, and reached into his bag. He approached Jean.

"You know, you get a better workout if you stand in the middle of the treadmill," he greeted Jean flatly.

"That was incredible," Jean nodded toward the practice mat.

" _Krav Maga_ ," Levi replied. "Israeli military combat technique." 

He handed Jean a pamphlet. "I've been watching you, too." Levi told him. "You're growing stronger. You're a natural runner. I think you should enter this."

Jean switched off the treadmill and opened the pamphlet. "Ironwood Tandem," he read. "what's Ironwood?"

"It's a tandem wilderness event. 15k off-road cycling, and then 10k cross-country running. One cyclist, one runner. At Ganaraska Forest. Northeast of the city. The event draws firefighters and police from all over Ontario and the States."

Jean chuckled. "Levi, I could never win that!"

Levi raised a fine, dark eyebrow at him. "No, you won't win it. Ymir and I will win it. You just need to finish. Complete it. Do it for yourself. You just need to find a cyclist to partner with you."

__________

Sasha waited patiently for Derek, her instructor, to call her name. She stepped up to the range marker, quiet and serious. She looked carefully left, right and in front of her. Satisfied that no one was on the archery range, she accepted an arrow from Derek, fitting it carefully to her bowstring, dark eyes focused behind her safety goggles.

She inhaled, drew back slowly, elbow cocked. Exhaled, and released. Her first live, tipped arrow flew, nipping the centre of the bullseye.

"Ya-hah!" she crowed triumphantly. 

Outside of the gymnasium, peering in through the plexiglass, Armin jumped up off the cedar plank bench and hollered. "Yay, Sash!"

He turned to Jean, blue eyes shining. "Look what she's learning! She's so determined."

Jean gave his daughter a thumbs up, and she waved. Sasha sat back down, and another student took a turn.

Jean pulled the Ironwood Tandem pamphlet out of his pocket. 

Armin's eyes flicked sideways. He chuckled. "Oh….no. No. No way. Don't even ask me. They've tried to pull this shit with me before."

"It's a tandem event, baby and.."

"I know what it is! It's relentless-Levi-and-crazy-Ymir-day. They've won this three of the past five years. I bet they're training and stuff already, aren't they?"

"Well, yeah…"

Armin shook his head. "I'm a roadie. A touring cyclist. I'm not mashing through the bush on a bike."

"Levi gave me this brochure. He said that I should enter. That I'm a natural runner. And that I should set a goal for myself. Don't you want to do it with me?"

Armin sighed. "I dunno. I just…I don't think so."

Jean stretched out his legs on the bench, crossing his ankles and leaning back on the palms of his hands. "Yep, Levi said you'd say that. He knows you don't have the _stones_ for it."

Armin's blue eyes narrowed.

__________

Chris Guthrie sat in his holding cell, eating the packaged danish and cardboard-tasting coffee he'd been given for breakfast. Overhead, what sounded like a herd of rhinos thundered up and down the staircase. Upstairs, in the detective squad, a joint task force had assembled to fine-tune a net they'd begun to weave around a serial killer.

At the centre of the storm were Detectives Lesley Hastings and Tariq Nasir. 

Tariq Nasir had come to his partner with the germ of an idea; it had been imperfect, and Hastings had refined the proposal until it held water. It was incredibly risky, but brilliant.

"I won't be on the inside," Lesley had noted. "My face is the face of this case. I will be with tactical. Nasir on the inside, two plainclothes in situ, and the inside man from Guns and Gangs Unit."

It was a twist Tariq Nasir hadn't seen coming. "Guns and Gangs? Why? He'd better be good," he'd grumbled.

Chief Inspector Deiter "Dot" Pixis had cleared the room, except for Hastings, Nasir and the tactical team.

"Does the name 'Billy Keys' mean anything to you Homicide boys?"

"Sure," Les Hastings crossed his forearms, eyeing Pixis warily. "West End Boys. Irish mob. Moves keys of coke and heroin. One of Pat Boyle's soldiers."

Inspector Pixis leaned forward, the lurid fluorescent lighting catching the top of his bald head.

"Billy Keys is deep cover, straight out of the academy. He's one of ours."

"Jesus Christ," Les Hastings sat back, exhaling. He thought he knew most of Toronto PD's ins and outs. This, he hadn't seen coming. "How long?"

"He's twenty-six now. So that's…"

"Five years," Tariq Nasir whistled softly. 

__________

Sandy hadn't expected Toyeh to greet him with open arms. She hadn't. She'd sat, cross-legged and prim at a small round bar table at Sharq Tanq on Sunday afternoon. Shark Tanq's current show, _The Golden Age of Hollywood_ featured the very best drag performers paying tribute to Judy Garland, Marlene Dietrich, Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe. The Club was quiet, a few patrons having stopped in for a pre-show drink.

Toyeh wore a black sheath dress and jacket. Her lips were a crisp cherry red. Eyes lushly lined. Sandy allowed a slow, cursive smile to touch his lips.

"You are a vision," he greeted her.

"Hello," she nodded her head, gesturing to the empty seat opposite.

Sandy ordered red wine. _Why on earth_ , he wondered, _would a Muslim man with a young family be dressed as a woman, and hostessing at a Drag Club?_

Sandy wasn't stupid. He sipped on his Shiraz, listening to Toyeh's rich voice as she talked about Titano Delbello, and the night that Sharq Tanq had been smashed up.

 _Ah. There._ A man, sitting at a table and facing away from Sandy. He was wearing a cheap grey suit, and an earpiece, it's cord tucked into his shirt collar. Sandy glanced around the room, eyes hooded. _There. The bartender. Another earpiece._

Toyeh's phone rang. She excused herself, walking some distance down the bar.

"Yes?" Sandy overheard. And then, "No, not yet. We're waiting. I'm having a drink with a guy I know. No. Just a guy. Did the tox report come in yet? Fentanyl. And what else?…"

Sandy swirled his glass gently, nosing the bowl. Took another sip. 

"So, _Toyeh_ ," he leaned forward on his elbows, "you've never told me about your family?"

The fear on her face was real. Angry, hard-edged fear. Fear of exposure, Sandy assumed.

"Don't worry," he placed the glass onto the table, "your secret is safe with me. You're a cop, aren't you?"

Her eyes were large, soft, trapped.

The Club door swung open. A raffish young man entered, speaking loudly into a phone. Without breaking the rhythm of his conversation, he slid onto a bar stool, snapping his fingers for the bartender. The cop-bartender with the earpiece served him.

Sandy snickered. He wondered if the police-bartender actually knew how to mix any drinks. He looked back at Toyeh.

She had stiffened, her eyes fixed on the patron. She exhaled shakily.

"You need to leave," she whispered to Sandy.

"Not until you tell me the truth," his eyes narrowed. 

"Go," she entreated.

"No. But I _will_ keep quiet," he purred, smiling.

Sweat beaded her upper lip. Her eyes flicked from the grey-suited cop, to the bartender-cop. She swallowed, on the verge of capitulation.

"Tell me, now."

Angelo Delbello, the Club's owner, wandered in from his backroom office. He approached the young man at the bar. They exchanged words, not all of them pleasant. The younger man seemed to be trying to placate Angelo.

_I'm here for a drink, meeting a friend, I don't want trouble…_

Sandy turned his head to look. The young man wore black leather pants, black boots, and a cashmere sweater. His skin was coffee-smooth, green eyes arresting. Around his neck, on a chain, was a gold key. His young face was hard, and very pretty. _Part thug, part tart_ , was Sandy's assessment.

The bartender-cop looked at Toyeh. She gave the merest shake of her head.

"Who is that?" Sandy asked. 

"He's someone you don't want to be mixed up with," Toyeh looked away. 

"But I'm safe in your hands, aren't I?" Sandy pressed. "Aren't I?"

Toyeh regarded Sandy for a long moment. And seemed to reach a decision. She fished a tiny bag out of her purse, placing it discreetly on the table and covering it with her hand. 

"This is _silver spade,_ " she said. "cocaine laced with fentanyl. And it's killing kids."

"And you?"

"Undercover. Narcotics Unit."

Sandy sat back, victorious. "That explains alot. And the man at the bar?"

"His name is Billy Keys. And you don't want to know more. I want you to get up, and walk out of here, Sandy."

Sandy appraised the young man at the bar. He lounged at the bar like a self-entitled lizard, one foot up on the neighbouring stool, shouting crass insults at the baseball game on TV. He was everything Sandy deplored; raffish, corrupt, sleazy and ignorant.

Billy Keys fished an ice cube out of his drink, tossing it at the back-bar liquor bottles, where it clanked loudly. He turned, seeming to notice Toyeh for the first time.

Keys smiled, taking the cherry out of his highball glass, sticking out his tongue and slowly collecting it into his mouth.

"Piece of trash," Sandy hissed. "Rent boy."

A woman entered the bar, glancing around nervously and taking a seat beside Keys. 

It all kicked off in seconds. Billy Keys reached into his jacket, extracting something small into his hand. Toyeh was speaking into her phone, which Sandy now realized was wired to the two plainclothes.

"Scorpio… _go, go, go!"_

Keys was off his stool, making for the back door. The cop-bartender gave chase, Toyeh scrambling afterward.

Sandy's heart was beating in his chest. Would the police gun down that slick, simpering human garbage? After a moment, he followed Toyeh outside.

There was a single gunshot. Then, Billy Keys was pinned against the wall, Toyeh wrenching his arm backwards as the bartender-cop padded him down. 

Billy Keys turned his head, delicate features contorted into a snarl, and spit at Toyeh.

A very deep voice issued from Toyeh then, "Oh you are so done, _asshole!_ " Toyeh's fist cracked across Billy Key's face.

Blood spurted.

Sandy shivered deliciously.

Toyeh, who was apparently an undercover cop, growled, "You low-life, trash-eating _slut_ …" He slapped Keys again.

Sandy's eyes were feral.

Keys was cuffed.

Toyeh stood in the alleyway, panting.

"Sandy," she said, "We'll need to file an incident report. That little prick spit at me, and that's assaulting an officer. Will you back me up? Can you ride with us?"

Sandy appraised the young man in cuffs, drooling blood, clothes torn. Maybe he'd act up again. Maybe, they'd have to hurt him some more.

"Anything to help. I'll get my wallet."

__________

_At seven-twenty, on the evening of June 28th, 2015, suspected serial killer Alexander "Sandy" Morley walked into Toronto Police 55 Division, chatting with Detective Tariq Nasir. In front of them, two other detectives escorted deep cover asset Detective Eren Jaeger, aka "Billy Keys" up the stairs and into the precinct._

Sandy noticed perfect, jewel-drops of Billy Keys' blood beading the linoleum as he was hurried forward.

They walked down a hallway, and Toyeh turned to him. "Please wait in here, Sandy," her eyes were calm. "I'll be in shortly to take your statement,"

The door opened. Sandy entered. The door closed.

It was then that Sandy heard it. The thunk of an electronic deadbolt. The room was padded, and empty, save for a table and chair.

He froze, mouth hanging open. Realization dawned. Then, maniacal fury.

"You bitch!" he shrieked to the empty cell, _"Toyeh, you fucking whore! I will fucking kill you!"_

Tariq Nasir made it the twenty steps into the command centre, collapsing bonelessly against the wall, hands on his knees. A cheer went up.

Without a single shot being fired, Alexander "Sandy" Morley was in Toronto Police custody. Tariq stood upright, bidding "Toyeh" a silent goodbye and embraced his partner, his squadmates and team.

__________

"Whoa," Chris Guthrie said softly. "that looks like it hurts."

Two constables had deposited a raffish, dishevelled young man into the holding cell with him. The young man's sweater was ripped. He wore leather pants, and blood dripped down his chin from several cuts on his face.

He didn't acknowledge Chris. He slid, slowly, down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. He closed his eyes.

"My name's Chris, dude." ventured his cellmate, a freckled black boy with chaotic hair. "What's yours?"

'Billy Keys' regarded the sanguine, peaceful face, as if the answer to that question was truly unknown. 

Chris rose from the bench he sat on, wadded up a handful of paper towel and wet it in the stainless steel sink.

"Here," he offered. This was accepted wordlessly, and pressed to a cut lip. "Jay-zus," the dishevelled man said thickly.

"Jesus?" Chris said softly. "Your name is Jesus?"

"No," a resigned voice. "It's Eren."

They'd blindsided him, too.

_We're pulling you out. Today. Now. Paddy Boyle wants to send you to Medellin, Columbia, and we can't protect you there. It's done, Jaeger. You're done._

They'd debrief him. It would take days. And it started in this jail cell. He was disoriented, frightened and shocked. He felt more at home in this cell with Chris and his paper towels and stale danish, than with the celebrating detective squad upstairs.

He had a life. Friends. An apartment. He wasn't coming home, and no one was going to tell Annie why. Detective Eren Jaeger closed his eyes to stop the world from spinning.

 

 

 

 

 


	38. The Wall

Chief Inspector Dieter "Dot" Pixis had several scars; ghostly voids on his arms and neck which were the only physical testament to four years undercover with an Aryan Brotherhood bike gang in Montréal. When his cover had broken in 1987, he'd had the white supremacist tattoos burned off. His right cheek bore a curious pucker; he'd been grazed in the face by a bullet during a drunken dispute with an AB sergeant-at-arms in a Montréal-Nord warehouse. The other biker hadn't been drunk. Pixis had. The assignment had ended; the drinking hadn't. For years.

Pixis sat in the makeshift Command Centre at 55 Division. Seven hours earlier, police had arrested multiple-murder suspect Alexander "Sandy" Morley without so much as firing a shot. Pixis and his asset, Detective Eren Jaeger, had provided backup to 55 Division's Homicide Squad. Now, Jaeger sat in a holding cell in the basement, awaiting a full debriefing. Pixis flipped his ten-year sobriety chip across the surface of his spatulate hand, turning it over each knuckle. 

Lesley Hastings emerged from interrogation, after four hours with his suspect. His face was drawn and taut; shirt-sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp and hard.

"This's a strange one," he approached the Chief Inspector. "it's time to send in Tariq Nasir. Things about to get interesting." The tall detective poured himself a coffee. It shook in his hand. He swore softly.

"My asset isn't ready to accept reassignment," Pixis remarked. 

Les looked up, trying to process anything beyond the uneven, cyclical ranting of Alexander Morley. One minute, silky and nasty; the next, tearful, rocking rhythmically, begging to go home. Moments ago, Les had taken a break, his place assumed by Tariq Nasir.

"What?"

"I know what to _say_ to Jaeger," Pixis was continuing in Montreal-accented french, "I know how he feels. I been there. He doesn't want to hear it's all over. Not yet. Maybe you could talk to him?"

"I'm busy."

"You're busy because Eren put himself on the line for you boys and now he's a walking dead man. You can't give him ten minutes?"

A growl of annoyance.

__________

_My young love said to me, "My mother won't mind_

_And my father won't slight you for your lack of kind."_

_Then she stepped away from me and this she did say:_

_"It will not be long, love, till our wedding day."_

Singing. Smoky, pitch-perfect singing. An Irish song Lesley had never heard before. A voice he knew in his bones, in every fibre of his being. One eyebrow quirked. 

Inside of the holding cell, two figures sat side-by side, sharing a stale egg salad sandwich. One of them was his boy, hair wild since they'd taken his hair-tie so he wouldn't hang himself. Bare feet. Singing as beautifully as ever.

The other, sitting so close to Chris that their shoulders touched, was holding a wad of wet, beige paper-towel to his face, and mumbling along happily.

__________

The cell door swung open.

The singing stopped. Eren Jaeger looked up. One of the 55 Division Squad, no doubt. 

"Fuck d'you want?" Angry, shaken. A light Belfast accent.

The tall, imposing figure didn't answer Eren Jaeger immediately. He crossed his arms, leaning in the doorjamb and regarding Eren's cellmate with an odd expression.

"Nobody fed the _dog_ ," drawled the visitor, whom Eren suddenly recognized as the lead homicide detective on the case. Hastings?

"Armin fed the dog, Papi," replied his musician friend, Chris.

_Papi?_

"You ok, boy?"

"Yeah," Chris didn't move. "You okay?"

"You need to check that bloody partner of yours. Nasir." Eren quipped angrily. "Nobody needed a smack in the fucking gob today, did they? Everything was in hand."

Eren pulled the paper towel away from his face, looking at the bloody smudge in the shape of the Virgin Mary. "Fucking bloody _maniac_."

"We owe you, Jaeger." Les Hastings said sincerely. "You've been in here the best part of a day now.Car's here for you. Maybe it's time you go?"

Eren Jaeger turned to look at Chris. Chris gripped his shoulder gently. "Dude, it's cool. Lesley's alright, man. You can trust him."

"How d'you know?"

"I know. We're _together_ , dude. I live in his house, in Riverdale. We're…together."

"It's your house, too." Les retorted, a touch grumpily. He regarded Chris thoughtfully. "Well, get your self up, boy. You want to go too?"

"Go where?"

"Seeing as Jaeger seems to like you, how about you do some community service here? You go along, and you hang out with him for a while. Have a meal. Help him out."

"I need my guitar. Can I get my guitar back?"

"You need to take better care of _the damn dog_ before you decide to occupy city bridges, fool." Les snorted, but his eyes were full of pride, and a warmth that made Eren Jaeger decide to trust him.

__________

"Can I come watch you play?"

Evening. Jean Kirschstein stood in the loft's hallway, regarding Armin. 

His lover sat on the couch. Armin had dressed herself in black tailored pants and a vintage lilac sweater that cast sweet light into her eyes. She looked composed, but brittle.

"Honey," Jean said softly. "of course you can come if you _want_ …you know that." 

A knot of concern settled into his gut. "But it's _Greatest Air Battles_ night on History Channel. I thought you never missed that?"

The sweet eyes flicked down. "No. I'll come to Brighton and hear you play." She reached for her coat. _I don't want to be by myself._

At the Club, Armin sat on her regular stool, between Ambrose "Wedge" Martin and Dewey Gordon, who had dropped by to hear Cherry Kirsch's set. She ordered a whiskey rocks, and a clubhouse sandwich. Dewey and Wedge were chuckling and reminiscing, trying to tell her a story. Armin relished the distraction. 

"Things was different then, Ugly," Wedge began. "In the summer we drove outside of the city, and we played dance halls, and we played big pavilions. In the summertime. One night near Orillia, we was packing up…"

"We were _not,_ " Dewey corrected. "We just got there."

"Yeah, we just got there. I had a station wagon. Back then, I needed a station wagon to fit Dewey's double bass, see. I took out the bass, and I had a lunch in a brown bag. I took out my sandwich. Ham and cheese sandwich."

"Damn, you was _dumb_ ," Dewey shook his grey head.

Armin looked from one to the other, smiling and feeling warm and familiar and safe.

Wedge continued, "so that's when I see this dog. And he looks hungry. Skinny like. So I gave him half of my sandwich. I give him a ham and cheese sandwich. He liked it."

Dewey Gordon guffawed. " _Lordy, lord_. And that's when the resort manager, he comes up to the band leader and says, _'you need to tell your bass player not to feed the wolves, please and thank-you!'"_

Wedge guffawed. So did Armin. She chewed on her sandwich, enjoying the company, waiting for the band to start and for a moment forgetting the horrible, demented eyes boring back through the one-way glass at her when she'd viewed a police lineup and identified Alexander "Sandy" Morley as her attacker.

__________

June sunshine poured in through the loft windows. Jean had given up trying to arrange a soundtrack for an educational game about an ice-cream parlour. His lover and his daughter, usually able to make themselves scarce during his work sessions were scrambling through the loft, laughing and screaming, Kleenex hot on their heels. Sasha was chasing Armin. Armin vaulted over the couch, around the kitchen island and ran down the hall to the master bedroom, where Sasha tackled him onto the bed. "I win!" she squealed.

Armin lay on his back, and pulled on her ponytail.

"What were we playing?" he asked her.

"I don't know, but I did  _win_ ," Sasha crowed. 

She threw her arms around Armin's neck and squeezed so hard that she shook. 

"A big, big hug!" she grunted, "so it lasts you _all day_!"

"Why, thank you!" Armin hugged her back.

Jean stood in the doorway. "Where's my cuddle?" he asked.

Sasha jumped off the bed and flew at him, launching herself into his arms.

"Big tiger," she growled.

"Bigger tiger," Jean roared, falling onto the bed beside Armin, with Sasha between them.

Sasha reached over, pinching Jean's nose in one hand and Armin's in the other.

She turned to Armin. "Corn niblet," she said.

"So Sash, do you give Levi hugs?" Jean asked. He'd developed a growing curiosity about Levi Ackerman; this unusual man who held Armin, and now the mother of his child, in such high esteem.

"Not really, Daddy." Sasha sat up. "Daddy, some people feel warm inside, even _without_ hugs. They feel better if you just let them be and don't squeeze them too much. So I say _'Good morning Levi'_ , and then Levi says, _'Are you well, Sasha?'_ and I look at him, and he looks at me, and we're all done."

"Thank you for explaining that," Jean said seriously.

"It's no problem," his daughter replied.

"Good _morning_ , Levi?" Armin's eyebrow quirked mischievously.

__________

"I'm not riding down that," Armin snorted.

He and Ymir Faltskög were spending the day at Ironwood Conservation Area, enjoying a practice ride for the tandem event that would take place in three weeks' time.

The two cyclists were at the lip of a steep incline, looking down through treed slopes.

"Armin," Ymir turned her head, expression steady. With masterful self-control, she'd resisted teasing the diminutive ambo driver. "mountain bikes can do amazing things. You just need to trust the bike. And unweight yourself, like I showed you. Back off the saddle, put your weight over the rear tire. Mimic what I do, and follow me. If you fall, you fall."

Ymir launched herself powerfully down the steep incline, picking a line and weaving down the hill. Armin took a breath and followed. Ymir smiled, hearing him close behind her, squeaking ' _Shoot! shoot! shoot!'_ at every twist and turn in the trail.

Armin hadn't expected the adrenalin rush. Trail riding presented a set of constantly changing variables; roots, rocks, obstacles, inclines, descents. He geared up and down, mis-timing most of his changes and crunching his gears, but grinning broadly.

"Shoot!" He felt alive, sweat-glazed, in control.

__________

Levi moved through the brush, more shadow than man. He ran, smooth and sure. Jean followed, sides aching, heart pounding, determined not to let Levi Ackerman outpace him yet again. Levi had Armin's devotion, and now, it seemed, Sasha's and Mikasa's as well. Jean owed his life to Levi. And now, to top everything off, Jean found that he had a growing desire to earn the older man's _respect_ , and that fact made him angry. Why should he want Levi Ackerman's respect? Surely, that honour should be reserved for his mentors. Rocky Joel Lee. Dewey Gordon. Or his long-suffering father, Hannes. Or gentle guides, like Ross Arlert or Lydia Adandwale. 

But no, for whatever reason, he wanted - needed - Levi to know the full measure of him. He picked up the pace, pain searing his side. He had this. Pain didn't matter.

They rounded a bend in the trail; in front of them was a ten-foot-high wooden wall obstacle, with two ropes.

Levi shortened his stride, leaping and planting himself on the wall and hauling himself upward, rangy muscles panther-taut.

Jean careened full-tilt into the wall. Grasping the rope, he tried to haul himself up, but the rope burned and slid through his hands.

"Fuck."

Levi looked down from his perch atop wall. Blinked.

 _"Fuck!"_ Jean repeated, craning up at Levi. It was as close to an entreaty as he was going to offer.

A silence, broken only by crickets keening and the rasp of Jean's breathing.

"Say what you want to say to me," Levi said finally.

Jean sagged against the wall. 

"You have given me some thought, haven't you? Because of Doctor Kuroda?" Levi pressed. "I once implied that you weren't good enough for Armin, and never would be. Do you not have anything to say to me with regard to your family?"

Jean placed his hands on the wall. He looked at the rope. He walked back down the trail, ran and threw himself at the wall, clutching at the knots tied into the thick rope, hauling himself hand-over-hand, muscles screaming, chest burning. He gritted his teeth, shaking with strain. And let go. And fell.

Levi watched from the top of the wall. "You stopped breathing," he commented. "don't hold your breath when you climb. Breathe. Deeply and evenly."

Jean's face flamed. Tears pricked his eyes, which infurated him. With a snarl, he launching himself at the wooden wall, scrambling, hand over hand, pulling the woodsy air into his lungs, cursing Levi, cursing his body, cursing in general. He hooked a leg over the top of the wall and hung there, exhausted.

"Well," he finally gasped. "Well…it doesn't seem like….like I have much _choice_ about you, does it? Your loyalty to Armin is absolute. You're kind to my kid, and treat her like an equal, not a nuisance. You respect Mikki. You respect Mikki's need for…" _Oh, no. Way, way too much_. Before he could stop himself: "for…distance. To not always…" he sighed. "And honestly, we both know that no one fucks with you. Let's just call it like it is, right?" Jean eased himself upright, meeting the tapered grey eyes.

"You have no use for me, much less any respect." He sighed.

"That's incorrect," Levi said quietly. "You are whole. You are joyful. You are a man that everyone wants to be near. You love, and you are loved."

And with that, Levi vaulted off the wall and shot off down the trail, leaving Jean Kirschstein to scramble down and follow in his wake.

__________

They had a BBQ lunch at the conservation area: Armin and Ymir, mud-spattered and triumphant from the cycling course; Levi and Jean, having completed the obstacle run. Krista had accompanied the competitors, and had passed the morning with yoga and a book. Now, she handed out cold drinks, and opened containers for lunch.

Armin's phone rang. It was his sister-in-law Ever, on Skype.

"Hiya," Armin opened the link.

"Good God," Ever exclaimed at the sight of her muddy young brother-in-law, blue eyes startling in his dirty face. "You're filthy! How'd it go?"

"Yeah," Armin beamed, teeth white. "Great!"

Ymir grabbed the phone. "Hi Evie," she smiled. "Let me see her."

Ever moved the phone down, and a tiny, cherubic face peered curiously out from the snuggly that Ever wore across her torso.

"Hi, sweet girl," Ymir cooed. "Hiya Rosi!"

Ymir could not tell the story without crying. Still. 

_Four months earlier, on a cold weekend in February, Ever had given birth, and tiny Rosamin Arlert had dropped into Ymir's waiting hands._

_Ymir, Krista and Ever had let themselves in to Jean and Armin's loft, to water the plants and feed Kleenex while the couple was away._

_Ever's water had broken, and Krista had been on her way out the door to get the car, when Ymir had called her back, sharply._

_"Call 9-1-1," Ymir had said calmly, "this little one isn't going to wait."_

_"But…." wide, sky blue eyes, "but labour takes hours!" Krista replied, alarmed._

_"Not this baby," Ymir had guided Ever to the couch._

_"Ever, the baby is coming," Ymir put a warm hand on the expectant mother's belly. "We can do this together. It's going to be okay…"_

_By the time the paramedics arrived, the baby was crowning, Ever was pushing and cursing Ross Arlert up and down. Ymir would not be moved. Rosamin Arlert was born into her arms, checked quickly, and placed on her mother's chest._

_And the brown couch of a thousand stories had one more to tell._

_Ymir had fallen in love for the second time that year._

"Hi sweetheart," she looked into the phone screen at the tiny face. Rosamin squeaked, baby-bird mouth open. 

Armin reached for the phone. Ymir snagged him in a headlock to keep him still until she was done chatting with the tiniest Arlert.

__________

Levi and Armin stood in the creek after lunch cooling off, while the rest of their party dozed and sunned themselves.

Armin watched the chilly water churn up and around his calves.

_This river I step in is not the river I stand in._

That slogan was scrolled, in steel, on the Queen Street Bridge, where a week earlier Chris Guthrie had stopped traffic, calling attention to the death of D'Andrée Bishop and others like her. 

_This river I step in is not the river I stand in._

_So true. Because the water I step into, in an instant, will be washed downstream, forever._

_The life I think I'm stepping into…passes into a new moment, a new day, a new year. It's not the life I stepped into._

"Levi?"

"Mmm?"

It was all Armin could manage for a long moment. Fat, unbidden tears scribed pink through the dirt on his cheeks.

Levi waited.

Now that Armin had begun, he found it painful to finish.

"Jean…."

Armin knelt, spooning cool water onto his face, and sniffled.

"Come, sit."

They sat on the edge of the riverbank.

"Jean had to come to the police station with me," Armin's began shakily, "They put me in a room. They put him into another room. They had to tell him…" Armin stared ahead, willing the bubble in his chest not to burst, "they had to tell him that the drugstore guy… _the drugstore guy_ …was my attacker.

He always came when I wasn't there," Armin looked at Levi miserably, "he came into our _home_. Touched our things. Took my stuff…I'm sorry…Jean was so upset. Les Hastings tried to calm him down," Armin wiped his nose on his sleeve and said quietly, "Jean got sick in a bucket. He got sick. At the police station. In a _bucket_ , Levi,"

Armin looked up, "Tariq Nasir had to explain to us, that the man they have in custody, is unwell. He has two personalities. One of them is very dangerous. The other isn't, really. D'you remember me telling you that during the attack, the man was trying to pull me _out_ of the car and screaming, _"Get out, get out get out!"?_ Well," Armin looked at Levi, "the police think that…at that moment, he really _was_ trying to get me out of the car. Before the other side of his nature…the h-hateful side…could hurt me any more."

"You're not relieved," Levi put a hand on Armin's knee. "you're upset."

"We both are," Armin shuddered. "We feel so stupid…we feel gross. _Violated_. Rattled. I don't know. I don't know…"

"Talk to Jean."

"He's been through so, so much…I don't want to burden him more…"

"He needs it. He needs to carry this with you."

A wistful little smile from Armin. "Since when are you a fan of Jean's?" 

"Since he got over a wall he needed to."

\----------

It broke Armin's heart. There it sat, on an evidence table, in a clear plastic bag, neatly labelled. The pink scarf Jean had lovingly crocheted for him. Alexander Morley had taken it. _From his home._ He felt sick.

"It's yours?" Les Hastings asked softly.

Armin just nodded. "You know it is," he replied bitterly. "Les, you were there!"

"We need it for a while," the Detective told him gently.

Armin had gone home, showered, and scrubbed his skin raw. He'd sunk down onto the floor of the shower, numb. Hung his head. Watched the water turn his blond locks into ropes.

Jean had called to him, having arrived home. Armin made some sort of noise in return.

After an eternity under the steaming spray, he turned the shower off, stepped out, swiping at himself with a towel.

He pulled a t-shirt over his head, and stepped into his worn flannel pants.

He padded out into the main living area and stopped. 

Jean had dimmed the lamps, and lit cheerful tea-lights. He'd set the table, and unpacked dinner. He'd driven down College Street to _Charred Squirrel_ , to get their favourite Portuguese BBQ. He'd put some Grappelli jazz on the stereo, and set up the chessboard. He sat at the table, patiently waiting.

Jean had promised himself that he'd be calm and gentle and reassuring. He hadn't wanted to cry. He always cried! Jean held out a hand. Armin stepped closer, twining his fingers with Jean's. Jean tugged gently, pulling Armin onto his lap, cupping his sweet face.

"Nobody," he said softly, eyes shining, " _Nobody_ breaks us. Nobody gets to do that."

Armin melted against the solidity of Jean's form, felt the strong arms wind around him. It was all he needed in the world.

Jean picked something up off the table. It was a small loop that he'd fashioned out of a guitar string.

Shaking, he picked up Armin's left hand, sliding the guitar string onto his ring finger.

"Armin," he whispered, lips against the damp hair, _"Armin, forever. Please…"_

 

 


	39. The Boy With The Bright Blue Eyes

"Armin," Sasha cautioned gravely, "Don't drink that."

Her round, brown eyes fixed on the kitchen blender, which contained a frothy, bile-green smoothy.

Armin reached over, giving his pre-race drink a few more pulses.

"What's in there?" she asked curiously, standing on tiptoe to peek over the countertop.

"Frogs and strawberries."

"No!"

"Yup. _Frogs._ Big squishy ones."

Armin turned then, regarding Sasha with an odd look on his face. Peaceful, soft.

"Wish me luck?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Luck!"

__________

_Boof._

"No."

_Ruff!_

"Go lay down, Kojak," Les Hastings was in his Riverdale kitchen, placing cold drinks into a soft-sided cooler bag. He and Chris were planning to spend the day at Ironwood Conservation Area, watching the Ironwood Tandem Race. Chris stood in the kitchen doorway, pecking at his phone and watching Lesley. 

The police detective had shucked his grey suit in favour of golf shorts, sandals and a panama hat.

Without breaking his texting, Chris crossed the kitchen floor and grabbed Kojak's leash off the wall.

The old shepherd thumped his tail on the floor, whining excitedly.

"He wants to come, Papi." Chris entreated. "Come on, Koj…" Chris tapped his leg and Kojak rose slowly, butting his head against Chris's thigh. Chris bent, scrubbing Kojak gently behind the ears. He clipped on the leash, stood and looked at Lesley.

"Can he come?"

Lesley glared at Chris. Who gave him a sunny smile in return.

"Looks like I been outvoted, anyway," he grumbled.

_Boof._

__________ 

Ironwood Conservation area stretched lazily along the upper Rouge River basin; it's densely-forested hills broken only by a network of dirt fire roads.

On July 11th, firefighters, first responders and law enforcement from across southern Ontario and western New York State converged on the site for the Ironwood Tandem event. 

The day dawned a pale, hazy blue; summer heat with a note of dampness in the air. The Conservation Area bustled with activity; colourful alleyways of sponsors' tents, vendors offering iced coffees, team staging areas and everywhere the bright glint and wink of race bikes.

Jean Kirschstein swung his black hatchback into the gravel parking lot below the event centre. He parked in a secluded spot at the far end of the lot, under some trees. 

Armin clutched a paper event map, chewing on his lip nervously. "Okay…" he mused, "okay…"

Jean crooked a smile at his lover. "Don't be nervous."

"I'm not," Armin replied in a tight voice.

"Yeah, you are," Jean grinned. "All of you Arlerts do that."

"Do _what?_ "

"Say _'okay'_ over and over again, when you're nervous."

Armin looked at Jean, blue eyes somber. "Jean, what if I mess this up?"

"Then you mess it up. So what. Life is messy, baby. Our life. It's hectic and crazy and messy…"

His face was close to Armin's now; his own nerves, the heat, the adorable MTB shorts and jersey that Armin wore all combined to arouse Jean.

"But…."

Jean kissed Armin, his lover's breathy nervousness intoxicating.

Armin's arms went around Jean's neck and he whined softly; a capitulation meant only for Jean's ear.

Jean palmed the front of Armin's shorts, his kiss sharpening. "Fuck, I want you…" 

"Uh-huh…"

Jean nuzzled, seeking the smooth, damp skin behind Armin's ear, where hairline met flesh.

"We h-have to _go_ , though," Armin threaded his fingers through the sandy hair, pulling lightly. 

This elicited a needy growl from Jean. "Tell me, baby…"

The soft buzz of Jean's voice had Armin arching out of the bucket seat, pressing against his fiancé.

"I…"

"Tell me…tell me again, honey…" Jean urged.

"I said 'yes' to you."

Jean groaned. 

"I said I'd be yours…"

They were going to be late, but as Jean ran his palm over Armin's crotch, a molten ache radiated from the strokes.

The public location made Armin fretful, hotter.

"You asked me…I said yes… _yes_ …" Armin's legs drifted apart, and his balls were instantly cupped and squeezed through his shorts.

"Jean…Jean, you can't fuck me here…" he breathed, face flaming.

"I know," Jean murmured softly, arousal and connection sweetening his tone. "I won't fuck you, baby…Can I touch you?"

Armin's cock pressed against the chamois pad inside the black lycra. "Yes…"

"Yeah?" Long fingers pulled at the drawstring of Armin's shorts, dipping inside, encountering rigid, twitching flesh. "Can I stroke you?"

"Mmm..."

A sweet, beachy smell; suntan oil. Jean's weight shifted as he fumbled with the flip cap. The fingers pushed inside of Armin's shorts again, this time slick and warm. 

"Is this good?" Long, slow pulls from root to glans, thumb rubbing insistently at the sweet spot.

The fist in Jean's hair tightened. "Rub…ah…rub the top more with your fi-fingers…" Armin gasped, savouring the scrape of Jean's calloused fingertips.

"I love that," he blurted out, flushing from the heated confession. The car filled with beach scent as Jean's fingers squelched inside of his shorts.

Jean's heart was thudding in his ears. He tipped Armin's head back, devouring the hot, wet mouth.

"What about now?" he murmured, breaking the kiss, "you like it when I rub you here?"

Armin began to pant. "Like that…but longer strokes…with your thumb, up and down…"

Armin's hips bucked against Jean's hand. 

"You never said you liked it best this way…" Jean mused against the parted lips.

"Well I'm...s-saying it...now," Armin gasped, the last threads of his dignity lovingly offered, "and stop sometimes, and squeeze at the base like…oh... _oh!"_

Armin arched into the strong, obedient fingers, languidly, in contrast to the rough handling his cock was getting.

"D-don't stop…" he whined, "fuck…where's my towel, the…" he felt the weight of terry cloth across his belly.

"Come, honey…" 

"Make me…make me… _make me!_ " An almost incoherent gasp, and Armin spurted into Jean's stroking fingers, his orgasm punctuated by ecstatic little cries.

Armin didn't make Jean wait. Still swimming in drowsy afterglow, he eased his spent body over Jean's lap, sucking the length of Jean's shaft slowly into his over-kissed mouth, moaning around the organ, body trembling and awash with endorphins. He suckled tenderly; the scent of Jean's body, it's texture and pulse, grounding him.

Jean's eyes closed. He pulled Armin's body close, cradling him, one hand sliding inside of the bike shorts, cupping a round little buttock.

Armin rocked, sucking, sweat-drenched. He felt Jean's gentle hand on his head, seeking permission.

"Hmmm," he purred.

The hand tightened in the wheat-pale hair, pushing down in an escalating rhythm, demanding more of the soft lips, the wet silky throat.

"Mine…" Jean gasped, hot milk splashing into Armin's throat. "Sweet baby…sweet baby…."

__________

Armin, Jean, Levi and Ymir had arranged to meet at Krista's vendor tent. The tent, bright orange for energy, was cheerful inside. Salt-lamps glowed softly. A long table held organic muffins, wheatgrass smoothies and wellness materials. A CD of panpipe music played softly. Krista and her colleagues had set up three massage tables, and were offering pre-race treatments to the cyclist and runners.

Levi Ackerman was taping his wrists and fingers for the obstacle course ropes. He'd wanted to help Jean to do the same first, but Jean and Armin had yet to show up.

A bright voice echoed inside of the tent. "Morning!" Armin called cheerily.

Levi looked up. There was Armin…cheeks flushed, lips bitten, hair touselled. He wore their team's green-and-yellow jersey and black MTB shorts. His blue eyes shone, bright with nervous excitement. He'd never looked happier. 

It was at that moment that Levi realized Armin was truly thriving; and that Armin needed him less than ever. And while Levi knew, intellectually, that this was a good thing, he felt a stab of jealousy.

"You're late," his features were stony.

"I know," Armin offered a wan smile, "I couldn't find my…" His blush deepened prettily.

"Ymir is waiting for you," Levi said curtly. He rose, turning away from Armin.

"Aw, Levi," his young partner said softly. Armin extended a hand as Levi turned, his fingertips just brushing Levi's arm. The ghost of a touch.

Levi went outside to greet Jean, so that they could make their way to the runner's transition station.

"Bye," Armin said, to the air.

__________

"Gah!" Ymir squawked, descending upon Armin. "Look at you!" she teased. I didn't know they _made_ jerseys this small!"

She spun Armin around. On the back of the jersey was screened their team name, _Traumaniacs_. Armin and Jean were racing to raise money for Sunnybrook Trauma Centre; Levi and Ymir for Veterans Rehabilitation.

After a hug and kiss each from Krista, Ymir and Armin made their way to the starting line.

"Ymir, I feel sick," Armin ventured.

"It'll be fine," she clapped a tanned hand onto Armin's shoulder. "you've got all your tools?"

"Yup."

"And you know how to use your chain tool?"

"Yup."

"And your phone is charged?"

"Uh-huh."

"Flare?"

"Jesus, Ymir, you're making it worse!"

"Okay," she stopped. "You just do your thing out there. I'll be waiting."

Armin found his bike, double-checking everything. The start gun fired.

The first section of the race was along a hilly fire-road. The steep inclines served to thin out the pack, the stronger riders gaining position.

Armin geared up and down, breathing deeply, taking the hills as best he could. That's when he began to hear comments from stronger riders as they passed him:

"Good job!"

"Keep it up!"

"Good luck!"

The trail narrowed to single-track, entering pine forest. Armin smiled to himself as he pedalled. It was going to be okay. And waiting for him, 15 kilometres down the trail, would be Jean.

__________

Kojak thumped his tail excitedly as Les Hastings swung his car into the parking lot at Ironwood. It was going to be a warm day.

Chris got out, opening the back door for Kojak.

"You take care of him, Chris,' Les warned. "It's goin' be hot out today. Keep him in the shade, lots of water."

"I know," Chris looked around excitedly.

The pair made their way with the dog to a large, wide grassy field. Running through the centre of this was the start/finish line, and the main fire road. 

"Huh," Chris smiled, taking in the bright vendors' tents. The air held a tantalizing mix of pine forest, coffee and grilling barbecue "You want lunch?"

"We just had breakfast."

Les's dark eyes panned the area as well. There. Two unmarked squad cars. One S.W.A.T. trailer. No, two. He supposed it was unsurprising; the event attracted a wide range of emergency services personnel from across the Province and even from the States.

He found a spot, and left Kojak there in Chris's care. He approached the S.W.A.T. van, and two officers outside turned toward him immediately.

He flipped his badge out. "Hastings. Toronto Homicide."

He was allowed into the trailer.

"Morning, boys. Beauty sleep got disturbed, eh?"

The S.W.A.T. Captain recognized Hastings. "Grumpy prick. You lost?"

"Friends in the race. What's on the radar?"

"Terror threat. Against team New York Minute. NYPD vetted it and it sounded legit."

Les nodded. "Well. Here if you need."

"Don't strain yourself, grouch," but the Captain met Lesley's eyes, nodding.

Lesley got back to the spectators' area, finding Chris. He heard Chris laugh, and realized they had company. Eren Jaeger.

"Aw, who let you out?" he growled.

Jaeger straightened, a wry smile touching his scabbed lip. "I was told to go get some fresh air," he quipped.

"Some day off," Les groused. "Watch the dog, watch you, watch everything but the damn race!"

__________

At the far north end of the conservation area, the pine trees parted, and a picnic area had been created. This transition zone was where Levi, Jean and the other runners waited for their cyclists to appear. A strong cyclist could finish the offroad course in about an hour and fifteen minutes; inexperienced riders could take upwards of two hours.

One hour and twelve minutes after the starting gun had fired, the first of the cyclists began to appear.

"Shit," Levi hissed, seeing a _New York Minute_ rider enter the clearing first. _New York Minute_ and _Toronto S.W.A.T._ were the teams posing the strongest threat to _Traumaniacs_ Team One - Ymir and himself.

The _Toronto S.W.A.T._ rider appeared next. It was a further fifteen minutes before Ymir powered into the clearing, bright blood dripping from her right calf.

"Get ready, you fucking _runt!"_ she hollered, frustrated with herself.

"What hap - "

Ymir pulled into the gate, nodding. "All good…go, Levi, _go!!"_

Levi touched Jean on the shoulder. "I'll be waiting for you," he said, and took off down the fire road as Ymir checked into the transition tent.

Jean assisted Ymir to remove her helmet and placed his towel over the puncture in her calf.

"Tree," she explained. "Fuck," she sighed. "I've cost Levi time…"

"Did you….did you see Armin?" Jean asked hopefully.

Ymir chuckled. "When I looked back…he had a big, dopey smile on his little face."

__________

Armin's excitement began to build as he pulled into the last water station before the transition area. He was deep in the forest, and he had made better time than he'd hoped. His goal had been to finish the race in under two hours, and it looked as though that was going to happen.

Armin was pleased with himself; it felt good to be a participant, rather than merely an observer. A sudden image crossed his mind then; that of himself at thirteen, huddled in Ross's jeep, weeping and wishing that he would die. He felt a pang of sorrow for that lost little boy, and a wave of sweet gratitude that he'd been worth saving. Worth loving.

The supporters at all of the water stations and transition areas were amusing; they jangled bells, encouraged the riders, and offered paper cups of water and Gatorade. Some wore costumes and masks. Armin accepted a paper cup of Gatorade from a masked Batman, tossing it back and crushing the paper cup.

Feeling buoyed, he accelerated his pace, taking a steep descent in the path without tumbling down it. He'd fallen about four times thus far, and had had to carry his bike across a few rocky obstacles that were beyond his skill level. His knees burned, scraped. He'd bashed his elbow and his chin.

The trail opened up into a lush meadow. Armin wasn't the very last rider, but his fellow stragglers were either far ahead, or far behind. He was alone in the field.

Alone, when his arms and legs seemed to catch fire, tingling white hot and then his body seemed to turn to melted rubber. He wove, falling like a broken puppet into the tall grass.

 _Why? What is this?_  Frantically, he tried to assess. _Was he having a heart attack?_ He fumbled for his phone, managing to dial 9-1…before it fell from his trembling hand. His fingers would no longer close.

Then, he tasted it inside of his mouth. Bitter almond. _Drugged._

He looked up. A figure loomed over him. His vision blurred, shot with stars. It was the Batman who had given him the Gatorade.

He tried to move, but his bones had turned to syrup. 

"Hello Armin," Alexander Morley said softly. "Time to say goodbye."

 


	40. I Promised You Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flagging this chapter for readers who may be uncomfortable with violence, kidnapping and (non-sexual) assault. Tags have been updated accordingly. If you wish to continue with the story, but skip over this chapter, hit me up with a tumblr ask and I will be happy to give you a summary without graphic content.

Les Hastings watched Eren Jaeger chomp his way through a third grilled sausage. The kid was skinny. Where'd he put it? Eren still dressed like a spoiled little thug: expensive jeans low on his hips, two-hundred-dollar white sneakers, gold jewellery. He gabbed amiably with Chris between bites, but his emerald eyes were furtive. They swept the vicinity methodically. 

Rising, Eren approached Les, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"What's with all the S.W.A.T. boys?" he asked.

"What d'you mean?"

Eren snorted. "Well, apart from the trailer, we've got three unmarked squaddies, one unmarked special ops and the ice-cream van."

A wry smile from Hastings. He hadn't spotted the ice cream van. He told Eren as much. 

Eren shrugged. "Guess that's what comes of six years of having every copper waiting to blow your bollocks off. Makes you a tad twitchy."

"How's the apartment?"

The green eyes fixed on Lesley's face. "How's my fucking _situation?_ Can I work? Or are the marshals coming to relocate me?"

"Talk to Pixis."

Eren scowled. "You're the only copper I've met that's not half full of shite." 

He wolfed the last of his sausage. "Where's Miss Charming today?"

"Hey. Back off of Tariq."

"Guy's unhinged."

"He's the best young profiler in the city."

"He's a nutbar." Eren paused, eyeing Lesley's cooler. "Got any bevvy?"

That's when the call came.

Les's phone buzzed in his shirt pocket.

"Hastings."

"Yeah. Hastings, we need you in here."

"Where's in here at?"

"Ely Sheridan. S.W.A.T. trailer. Now, please."

__________

Les hung up, looking at Chris and Eren Jaeger.

He walked over to his lover. "Baby, watch the dog. If he gets tired, put him in the gardening shed with his blanket. It's cool in there."

"Why, Papi?"

"Work."

"Wot?" Eren Jaeger jumped up.

"Not you."

"Yes, _me."_ Jaeger strode toward the S.W.A.T. trailer. Hastings threw his hands into the air. He'd have a day off, he supposed, when he was six feet under.

Even before he reached the van, the police radios began to buzz. He stepped inside. Captain Sheridan, with whom he'd spoken that morning, leaned over a bank of monitors.

"Pick up that phone," the Captain said curtly.

"Hastings!" Les was becoming annoyed.

"Pud."

"Tariq. What? Is the baby okay?"

"Pud, we've got a situation."

"What?"

"Alexander Morley."

"Yeah?"

"He instigated a knife fight with another inmate. Cut up bad enough they sent both of them to East General. The other inmate was low-risk, they mixed up the charts and Morley got loose."

Les Hastings clenched the phone received in his fist. His breath came shallowly, temples hammering.

"What do you mean… _got…loose?_ Tariq what're you telling me, here?"

__________

With a personal best time of fifty-six minutes, Levi Ackerman breasted the red tape, crossing the finish line at 11:34 a.m. to win the Ironwood Tandem. He had traversed nine obstacles including three walls, a mud-crawl and a hand-over-hand rope bridge spanning the Ganaraska River. Four minutes behind him was the runner from team _New York Minute_ , a man ten years his junior.

He embraced teammate Ymir Faltskög, who hoisted him into the air. They were quickly surrounded by their squad from the fire station and a squeaking Krista.

After some moments, Levi squirmed free. The person he wanted most to see was still in the bush, peddling toward home.

__________

Jean was worried. Two and a half hours had elapsed since the start of the race. It was now 11:45, and the last of the cyclists were trickling into the transition station. He knew that Armin was new to off-roading, but he certainly wasn't new to cycling; he should have finished by now.

Three or four volunteers remained at the transition point, manning the check-in tables and radio. Jean asked a friendly-looking girl with curly hair to radio the north water station and see if Armin had passed through. He gave the girl Armin's team number.

She spoke briefly, and then looked up at him. "Yup, he cleared!" she said cheerfully.

Jean thanked her. He began pacing anxiously. It was only four kilometres between the water station and the transition area where he was waiting. _Something was wrong._ It was a feeling he couldn't shake. As badly as he wanted to run this race, he suddenly needed to find Armin.

Then, his phone rang. He smiled broadly, in relief. Armin's number.

"Hey, baby! Did you get a flat or something?"

_"Hi, Jean."_

Jean stopped. He frowned.

"Armin?"

_"Jean...he didn't cry."_

Jean felt sick. His heart hammered in is throat. "Who is this?"

_"He was brave, Jean. He didn't cry."_

"Who are you?"

A nervous chuckle. _"I guess you don't recognize my voice. It's me, Alex."_

Jean pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it.

"W…where is Armin? Why do you have this phone?"

_"Bye-bye Jean."_

Jean ran into the transition tent. Screamed at the volunteers to call 9-1-1. Then, he dialed Lesley Hastings number.

Les spoke to him in brief firm tones, telling him to wait on the fire road.

"Why?" Jean struggled to breathe as the ugly reality of Lesley's words sank in. "Why, Les, _why?"_

__________

Detective Lesley Hastings called in a Code Adam, hostage situation, at 12:30 p.m. on July 11th. Based on his in-depth knowledge of Morley, the S.W.A.T. team onsite deferred command to Detective Lesley Hastings, pending the arrival of Lieutenant Commander Sandra Chang and the K9 Unit. Hastings conferred briefly with Captain Sheridan, then patched into his own database on Alexander Morley. 

__________

Jean sat in the back of a Durham Region police cruiser, bumping down the main fire road toward the race start-finish area. He clutched his mobile phone, hunching miserably, heart hammering. He'd never been this frightened. Not even in the agonizing waking coma he'd endured after his accident. Because, as frightened as he'd been of being trapped in that shell forever, his gentle Armin had been there, flaxen head resting on his chest, whispering to him that all would be well. And he'd known that Armin was safe, and that Sasha was safe.

This worry was horrifying beyond anything he could imagine.

The squad car pulled into an area now cordoned off with police tape. Jean glanced wildly around. _Was Armin here? Had they found him?_

The door opened, and Les Hastings was pulling on his elbow gently. Jean got out of the car, and strong arms went around him.

"We do this in steps," Lesley's deep, level voice. "You come with me now," and Jean was ushered into the S.W.A.T. trailer, and given a seat at a stainless steel station.

Les hadn't let go of his arm. "Get Jean some water, please." Les spoke over his head. "Rico?"

Then: "Jean, this is Rico Martinez. He's a tracking analyst."

Jean just blinked. "Les, I feel sick," he croaked. 

Rico Martinez carefully removed Jean's mobile phone from his grip, patching it into a mainframe.

An officer placed a blanket around Jean's shoulders.

Les was on the phone, barking obscenities at someone. He hung up and turned to Jean.

"Okay Jean, we're going to find Armin. Now, I need you to repeat your conversation with Morley, to me. And I need to ask you a few more questions."

"No," Jean shot up, running his hands through his hair, knocking over a coffee and a binder, "No, _Les, I can't…I need to find him!_ I can't leave him out there by himself! He's all alone, he's…" 

"Jean. You're the person that Morley called. We need you here. We need your help. Armin needs you. Okay?"

"He needs me," Jean wiped at his eyes, "he needs me, _I can feel it…"_

__________

_She wore Blue Velvet_

_Bluer than velvet was the night_

_Softer than satin was the light_

_From the stars_

 

Armin surfaced, slowly. Dreaming. A dream…a dream about the race…what day was it?

 

_She wore blue velvet_

_Bluer than velvet were her eyes_

_Warmer than May her tender sighs_

_Love was ours_

His head throbbed. There was music. A car radio. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were leaden. Slowly, he eased them open. He was in a car. Dashboard lights swam, lime green and fuzzy. He blinked. And found that he was unable to open his mouth.

"Mmmh!"

It was as though he was a little bug, frozen in amber, unable to move. He found he could only turn his head.

He looked to his left, a scream lacerating his throat.

Inches from his face, a monster watched him.

It was Alexander Morley. At least, it resembled Morley somewhat. A network of ugly red slashes traversed Morley's cheeks and brow. Some of these cuts had iodine-soaked gauze sticking to them. Others gaped. 

Morley smiled, like a shy gargoyle. "Hi Robbie," he said softly.

Armin glanced around wildly.

_This is happening._ _It was no dream._

He'd been riding…then he'd collapsed. And now, Alexander Morley had come for him. 

The car engine growled. The car was running. Where would Morley take him? Armin craned his neck as far as he could. Then he saw it: a rubber hose sticking in through the back window, belching exhaust from the tailpipe into the vehicle.

Armin huffed in panic, sucking at the duct tape which covered his mouth. His huge eyes welled with terrified tears as he took in the enormity of his situation.

"It's okay Robbie," Morley said softly, "we'll go to sleep soon."

__________

By 2:00 p.m., Ironwood Conservation area had been evacuated and locked down. A command post consisting of a number of trailers, squad cars and ATV's occupied the race start/finish area. Family and friends had been ushered into the park's main pavilion. Krista Arlert called her brother Ross, sobbing incoherently into the phone until Ymir had taken it from her, pulling her close and speaking to Ross and Ever in measured tones.

"Why," sobbed the tiny blonde, "Why? My brother has never hurt a soul… _oh, Armin!"_

__________ 

Detective Tariq Nasir had nearly been pulled off of the operation when he'd decked one of the three constables who had escorted the injured serial killer to the hospital, only to lose him. Tariq been dispatched up to Ironwood, on a warning. Upon his arrival, he'd had a very heated exchange with Les Hastings, which had then turned into the bones of a tactical plan.

__________

_Blue Velvet_

_But in my heart there'll always be_

_Precious and warm a memory_

_through the years_

_And I still can see Blue Velvet through my tears_

"If I take this tape off," Alex said softly, "do you promise to be quiet?"

Armin was dizzy. He'd spent the past ten minutes studying his captor, the car, the surroundings. The vehicle was inside of what looked like a tractor shed. The shed doors were closed. Out of one window, he could see a hill, and a windmill. He couldn't feel his legs at all. The trunk of his body tingled, and he had a bit of sensation in his fingers.

Morley peeled back the tape. Armin gasped. He took in a shaky breath. And began to speak.

"W-what happened to your face?" he asked gently.

Morley shrugged a little. "I had to. I really wanted to see you, Robbie. To say sorry."

A pause.

"What are you sorry for?"

Morley looked down. Raised a hand to his lips. Chewed at a hangnail.

"You know." He looked sidelong at Armin. Reaching up, he flicked down the visor on Armin's side of the car. The visor held a mirror. Peering at his reflection, Armin froze. His cycling jersey was gone.In it's place, he wore a grey, faded pink camisole top, with a single satin rose sewn to the neckline. His dirty face was tear-streaked, but his lips has been painted a bright bubblegum pink.

 _Like a little hobo clown,_ he thought ruefully. Morley had fetishized him.

Armin forced himself to look at the macabre image. _Robbie. Alex's first, fatal crush._ He was beginning to understand. Forcing himself to remain calm, Armin recollected Tariq Nasir's assessment of Alexander Morley: two persons, inhabiting one body. Shy, damaged Alex; and his sadistic, malevolent protector, Sandy.

"Alex," he said shakily, "I'm the one who should s-say sorry. I should have taken…taken better care of you.

The figure in the driver's seat rocked a little. "S-Sandy says….."

"Never mind what Sandy says. I am saying that we can fix things. And who is more special to you, Alex? Me or Sandy?"

The maimed face twisted in confusion. Morley was sweating; it mixed with the blood from his facial injuries, running orangey and thin into his shirt collar.

"What did you give me?" Armin asked softly. "You gave me some medicine. What is it? I can't move."

"Quiet now, Robbie."

Armin began to cry, tears dribbling through the rose-pink lipstick.

__________

"Hastings!" an audible thump shook the S.W.A.T. trailer. "Hastings! _Open this fucking door!"_ and he was soundly cussed-out in Hebrew.

Sheridan looked up at Les Hastings. "That's the third time," he said tersely. "Please deal with it."

Les exhaled loudly. He rose, and exited the trailer.

Levi Ackerman was greyish, trembling and furious.

"You fucking morons," Levi's chest rose and fell. His eyes held a wild light.

"If he's…if anything has happened to Armin, it's on you, asshole! How? _How?"_ and Levi's voice cracked, a tone of pure sorrow.

He'd rubbed his arm dozens of times since the news had broken, but he still couldn't erase the last, feather-light brush of Armin's fingers… _Levi, please…_ Armin had reached for him, and Levi had pulled away…pulled away, refusing to share in the full measure of Armin's happiness. That ghostly touch burned his skin, like fire.

"You want to yell at me, or you want to set up a triage area?" Les barked at him.

"Where is he?"

"There's nothing else you can do just yet, Ackerman."

_"Where…is…he??"_

But Lesley Hastings didn't know.

__________

"Alex," Armin's head lolled against the passenger seat's headrest, "Alex, did you like talking to Jean?"

Morley was slumped, drowsy. "Yes," he slurred.

"Jean is your friend," Armin continued. "Alex, what if you could talk with Jean...all the time? Jean and I could look after you and…" his eyes flicked sideways, "and you wouldn't need Sandy anymore…"

It was raining outside, tinny and uneven, on the roof of the shed.

Armin's heart was pounding. He could move his fingers now. _I refuse to die here. In a shed. With this maniac._

"I like Jean so much," Morley said dreamily.

"He could come and get us," Armin urged. "No one would have to know. Did you like the loft, where we live?"

"Yeah, I did…"

"Do you want to go back there with me?" Armin shook, fighting the panic that threatened to burst, like a bubble.

Morley turned his head, regarding him. 

Then, Armin played his final card.

"Let's go outside," he whispered. "Let's go outside and wait for Jean, okay? We'll take you somewhere safe, where you won't need Sandy anymore."

"With Jean?"

"Yes," Armin whispered, blue eyes entreating. "with Jean."

__________

Levi Ackerman stalked away from the trailer, away from the triage station, away from the Durham Region EMT's, to his car. 

He shrugged on a black t-shirt, khaki green pants and boots. He loaded a small green bush bag with his medical kit, water, a police scanner and a foil shock blanket.

Then he took a twelve-inch serrated hunting knife from a compartment beneath his spare tire and stuck it into his belt.

Thus armed, Levi Ackerman vanished into the bush.

__________

Eren Jaeger stood at one end of the S.W.A.T. trailer, scowling. It was becoming increasingly clear that he was going to have to sit this one out. Again. It appeared, he reflected darkly, that the reward for hanging onto his sanity and a good part of his morality undercover for six years was to be treated like a doorstop. A good-for-nothing.

"Suit me up," he'd growled in Les's ear.

"No."

"Why the fuck not?"

"When's the last time you were part of a tactical team?"

"Fuck you."

Eren banged out of the trailer. Took several deep breaths. The K9 unit had arrived. This meant that all local roads would now be sealed off, vehicles searched, and soon the tactical team would head into the bush. The dogs milled about, barking excitedly.

 _Jayzus_ , Eren muttered to himself. By the time this circus got underway, Armin Arlert would likely be dead, if he wasn't already.

No, Eren hadn't spent the last few years with any sort of tactical unit. He'd spent them as Pat Boyle's drug enforcer, and he had a different style of problem-solving.

Eren Jaeger found his car, found his flak jacket and the shotgun with silencer that he stowed in the back seat. His charger screeched out of the parking lot, spitting gravel and heading toward the north end of the park.

Les Hastings poked his head out of the trailer, just in time to see the dust.

"Lord, I don't need this!" he snarled. He watched Eren drive away. And it didn't take a genius to figure out where Levi Ackerman had gone, either.

__________

Kojak whined, hearing the other dogs outside, in the assembly area. He barked. Lesley didn't come. Chris didn't come. The grizzled shepherd stood on his aching hind legs and looked out of the garden shed window. Barked again, tail wagging. He scrabbled at the door. He detected familiar smells…the K9 unit. He barked with more urgency, pushing at the shed door. And the door opened. Kojak loped into the pack of dogs. They were nosing a purple windbreaker, and a bandanna. _Scent. Scent and Find. Search._

Kojak whined, jostling in between two of the younger police dogs. He knew that scent… _bright-sunny-soft-Armin_ …Armin's smell. Where is Armin? Where is Armin? Unnoticed in the dark, rainy assembly area, Kojak milled around, circled, and loped off north, alone.

__________

_And I still can see blue velvet through my tears…_

Armin was working out how to get Alexander Morley close enough so that he could head-butt, or bite him…when Morley shut off the car.

He opened the driver's door, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door. Armin shook like a leaf, terrified that he might change his mind. Instead, he found himself lifted under the armpits, and then dragged out of the garden shed and deposited on the wet grass.

"Good," he nodded, "T-this is wonderful Alex!"

Armin sucked air in greedily, biting his tongue to keep from sobbing in hysterical relief that he'd gotten this far.

__________

On the stainless steel table inside of the S.W.A.T. trailer, Jean Kirschstein's phone rang. Jean stared at it, his heart kicking inside of his chest.

Rico Martinez flipped a switch, nodding. 

Les Hastings, to his left, had a headset on as well. He nodded, squeezing Jean's shoulder.

"H-Hello?" Jean squeezed his eyes shut.

 _"Hey Jean,"_ it was Alex.

"Hey buddy," Jean said shakily. He began to rock rhythmically in his chair. _Please, please, please…._

"We're ready."

"Ready..." Jean's mouth was parched. "Where are you?"

"Armin said you'll come get us."

"Armin sa-" Jean dropped the phone, shaking uncontrollably. Someone handed it back to him. "Armin…Alex, can I say hi to Armin?"

A pause. "No."

Jean and the tactical team heard Alex's voice murmuring something with the mouthpiece covered.

"Is everyone okay there?' Jean asked, reading a note that Hastings had passed to him.

_"I don't know, I…"_

"Alex," Jean repeated, "Where are you?"

Silence.

Rico's fingers flew over the keyboard. He gestured with his hand that Jean needed to keep Alex talking.

"Alex, it's raining…a-are you getting wet?"

Then, a silky, ugly tone. 

_"Faggot."_

Jean shook his head no, eyes widening.

"A-Alex?"

 _"Dirty scum,"_ he hissed.

And then, Armin's voice, crying out: "........... _Jean!"_

The line went dead.

__________

Got it!" Rico breathed.

He scribbled on a grid with a red marking pen.

"In here! This is the triangulation!"

"Jean," Les grabbed his arm, stilling him. "Good job…we've got a signal…we'll find Armin. You stay here with Rico."

"Hastings!" Lesley looked up, to see his Lieutenant Commander enter the trailer.

"Lieutenant!"

He introduced his unit commander to Sheridan. "Sheridan, meet Lieutenant Commander Sandra Chang, Homicide."

Chang nodded her head, turning to her lead Detective. "You got this locked down, Hastings?"

"Yes, Lu."

Chang's eyes flicked to the monitors. "That right? Locked down? Except for a rogue Guns-and-Gangs detective with a sawed-off shotgun, and an Israeli ex-Mossad sniper running around Ganaraska forest?

Hastings sighed, rubbing his temples. "Yup. That's pretty much the size of it, Lieutenant."

"Ackerman's ex-Mossad?" Rico asked curiously.

"Ackerman full of surprises," Hastings muttered.

__________

"Help!" Armin yelled, as loudly as he could. It was his last move, and he knew it. "Help! Here!"

The silky voice and the icy eyes were testament that Sandy was now in charge.

"Run!" Armin cried, hoping his attacker might flee, "Go! Leave me here!"

"No one will miss you," Sandy took a step toward Armin. "Not when they realize that you're trash. Human trash. Pure and simple." 

Rain had soaked Morley's gauze bandages, and they melted into his lacerated face ghoulishly.

Sandy's hands closed around Armin's throat. Armin's lower body still refused to move. Sandy dragged Armin into the brush. He squeezed, watching Armin's beautiful eyes roll into the back of his head. He squeezed until Armin lost consciousness.

__________

_Cold._

_Why was it so cold?_

Armin tried to open his eyes.

_Cold. Dark. Dark now._

He turned his head, gasping and coughing violently as cold water filled his nose and mouth. He tried to kick his legs, but they were putty. He turned his head, raising his face out of the water.

He was lying, alone, face down in a shallow creek.

"I…." His neck muscled trembled, his face falling back into the water.

Oh, his throat hurt. He tried to draw breath, tasting blood. 

He turned his head, succeeding in getting his mouth above the waterline.

Everything hurt…his left hand was smashed, the little engagement ring gone.

_No. Now Jean will think I took it off. I didn't take it off. I wouldn't…_

"Aaah," Armin tried to make a sound and the sharp pain in his throat brought tears to his eyes. He closed his eyes, numbing over.

_I can't keep this up. I'm going to drown._

He let out a short, sour bark then…a sound of triumph.

_I may drown…but you couldn't kill me, Asshole._

His head was so heavy. His face went under. He tried to roll, mouth lolling above the waterline.

_Just like D'Andrée Bishop…she died in a storm drain…_

 

_I…love you, sweet Jean…I love you…I will be with you forever…you are in my blood, and I am in yours…you asked me…I said yes…forever…_

 

_Ruff! Ruff!_

Armin raised his head, blood running from his nose and mouth. _Oh God, what was that shape? What…?_

_Boof!_

_Boof!_

The large dog waded into the trickling water, furiously nosing Armin's bloody face.

"Ko…..Kojak!" Armin began to sob.

There were many German shepherds in the world, to be sure. However, only one that he knew of, wore a Chicago Bears collar.

With the last of his strength, Armin reached up, latching onto Kojak's collar.

"Pull," he croaked, "Go, boy! _Good dog!!"_

 


	41. Threads of a Sweet Soul

Chris Guthrie was shaking. He barely recognized the dark detective bent over the control centre inside of the S.W.A.T. trailer, wearing a flak jacket over his Panama Joe shirt and barking orders efficiently into a headset as he prepared to deploy three teams into Ganaraska forest. Lesley glanced up at Chris. He didn't smile or nod his head. One of the uniformed police officers ushered Chris to the rear of the trailer. 

There Jean sat, hunched over a steel table, hazel eyes vacant and hollow. Beside him, a Hispanic officer monitored several screens, fingers flying over a keyboard.

Chris sat down beside Jean. His friend gripped his forearms in silent misery, entreating.

Les Hastings rose, his head nearly brushing the ceiling of the trailer. He turned to the two young men.

"You okay to stay in here with Jean?" he asked Chris.

Chris nodded, wordlessly, pulling Jean closer.

"Dog okay?"

Chris swallowed.

Lesley stood, motionless. "Chris, the dog?"

Chris cast his eyes downward. "Papi, I can't…dude, I can't _find_ him just now…"

"What you saying?"

"I'm sorry, Lesley, he's probably…"

"You had one job, Christian. _One_ thing I ask of you."

Large, honey-brown eyes filled with remorse.

Lesley was unmoved. "You stay here with Jean. You help Jean, just now. Can you do that?"

The tall detective turned on his heel.

__________

Something was wrong. So wrong. Armin's face, chest and forearms were sticky with blood. Thick and metallic, it choked off his airway.

He blew weakly through his nose, gagging. 

Kojak had dragged him six feet up the creek bank, into an area of clay and scrub. 

Armin's limbs were shot through with a strange pain; he was still immobile, but his nerves twitched and jerked painfully. His head was unbelievably heavy, his nose and throat full of daggers; his lips and tongue swollen and throbbing.

He opened his mouth, a strange, thick croak issuing. His limbs, and then his torso, had begun to quiver.

_Shock…it's shock._

Kojak began to bark loudly then; sharp sounds puncturing the muzzy darkness inside of Armin's head.

_Sleep…I need to sleep…I just need…._

Kojak was growling then, tongue lapping at Armin's closed eyelids, nose and mouth. The large dog pawed him, nipping at his face and ears, trying to keep him awake.

_Good dog…good…d…._

__________

The forest flashed like a black and white movie; trees and scrub in sharp relief. Levi had switched on his headlamp, weaving silently through the trees. He paused, listening. He was ten kilometres from the mobile command centre. Two kilometres from the highway, trotting along a fire road which bisected the forest. The scent of creek water lifted on the night breeze. Crickets chirruped. There. Tents. The last water station before the transition. Armin had passed through here. 

Levi slowed, studying the knotwork of muddy tracks in the pool of light emanating from his headlamp. He looked left and right, trotting out of the clearing and rounding a bend. There. A break in the vegetation. He picked his way slowly, heart thudding in his chest. He inhaled deeply, to slow his heart rate. A gleam in the darkness. Armin's mountain bike, laying on it's side. And one shoe. One small shoe. It had a plastic dinosaur charm stuck to it. A gift from Sasha. 

Levi Ackerman unsheathed his knife, creeping along the trail of broken brush. He began to swear, softly, lethally, in Hebrew. Overhead, the whut-whut of Israeli army choppers circling, their strobes bathing the trees in acid green light. No…not army choppers. _Of course not._ An O.P.P. air seeker. 

Levi shook his head to clear it. He began to run, guided by some instinct, northwest and off of the trail. He might have been in Ganaraska, Ontario. He might have been in Tel Aviv, a decade ago. At that moment, the lines began to blur, but it hardly mattered.

__________

Eren Jaeger's Dodge Charger bumped along the fire road, windows rolled down. Eren glanced down at the park map Taking a sharp left, he pulled into the deserted transition station. Here, Jean had waited for Armin. But Armin had never appeared. From this point, there were only two routes out of the forest and back to the highway. 

Eren screeched to a stop, headlights on full, AC/DC blaring from his car radio. He got out of the vehicle, leaned against it, shotgun propped on his hip. He pulled a smoke out of his breast pocket and casually lit it, the tip glowing orange in the dim clearing. 

And waited.

Waited for Alexander Morley's curiosity and vanity to overcome his caution.

Morley would come to him.

__________

Eren had thought the swift, sudden weight on his back to be a wild animal at first. No man that he'd ever met possessed the kind of stealth to catch him  flat-footed. The small, wiry figure was impossibly strong, and wrangled the former Gang Detective to the ground with a mechanical precision that caused an appreciative belly laugh to erupt from Eren.

"Jay-zus!"

He was flipped over, his eyes seared by a head lamp.

"What's so funny?" a flat, toneless voice.

Eren screwed his eyes shut against the glare of the headlamp, turning his head to encounter the press of a serrated blade.

"Fair play," he concluded. "Let us up."

The weight lifted off of Eren. The light still blinded him.

"How did you get up here?"

Eren spat dirt out of his mouth. "Drove, didn't I?"

"Why?"

"Turn that fucking light off. _Jayzus._ "

His attacker angled the light upward, into the trees. Eren squinted. A cold, fine-featured face regarded him. Tapered, pale eyes that were stone cold.

"And you are?"

"Ackerman. EMT. Armin Arlert is my partner."

"Sorry mate, but you don't look like any fucking EMT I've ever seen. Wee commando, aren't you?"

"Get out of here," Levi Ackerman ordered him. "and stay out of my way."

The green eyes narrowed. "Nah, I don't think so. See, I've had just about _enough_ of being told where to stand, and when to shit, and what to do since my cover broke, right? I'm here to find the bastard that's got that young cyclist, and I really don't give a fuck what you think."

Levi studied the younger man. He had a hard, raffish quality; street-tarnished. Thuggish. The young detective's eyes, fresh as new leaves, were calculating.

"I'm not going back," Eren declared with finality. "Either I get to do my job or I'll get a bloody new one. Maybe I should become an EMT. D'you get grenades?"

Eren's next words were knocked from his lips; the dark forest spun and he found himself on his ass.

The small, enigmatic figure stood over him. "If you want to help, you do exactly as I say."

Eren spat onto the ground bitterly. "That's _twice._ Twice in a fucking month. That's right, _just smack ol' Billy Keys in the gob_. No worries."

Levi grunted, recognizing the name. "You're the UC from the Gang unit. Irish mob."

"And you're a dangerous wee bastard," Eren concluded, wiped his mouth. "Alright. I'll do as you say."

Levi nodded, getting into Eren's Charger. "Drive." he instructed. "Follow the creek trail."

__________

 "How?" Jean whispered, rocking mechanically in the hard chair, "How'd we get here, Face? I just..I…."

"Dude. Try and drink some of this," Chris nudged a paper cup of coffee at him.

"I can't. I feel sick."

It had been two hours since Jean had spoken with Alexander Morley. 

"Armin was so happy…we were _happy_ …" his voice was thin and distraught. "I literally can't stand this, Chris…I can't stay here…"

"Dude. Jean, man. Armin didn't flake on you, when _you_ needed him. He didn't. You can't unravel on him."

"How can I not go get him?" Jean wailed. "It's not _okay_ for me to just sit here…Chris, what if he's calling for me?" Jean cried.

Chris pulled Jean into his arms. "Stop. Stop. Stop it. Stop it…" Chris chanted softly into Jean's ear. "Shhhhh…." and the young musician began to hum, soothingly.

The phone buzzed, dancing across the table.

Jean jerked in his chair, skin catching fire. He looked over at Rico Martinez.

"Wait," the controller held up a hand. "And….go, Jean."

"H-Hello?"

"Hiya, buddy. It's just me, Alex." the voice was hushed.

Jean took a deep breath. His eyes focused on the myriad of lights winking inside of the trailer. Amber and green and red and blue. Ganaraska teemed with police, with firefighters, with paramedics. He'd heard that Levi had gone out into the bush, and so had one of the detectives. Les had been angry at first, but then he'd opened the scanner, speaking to the detective and the EMT. 

And yet, despite all of these cops…it was Jean, a music composer, who sat in the S.W.A.T. trailer, speaking to the deranged individual who had taken at least four lives, and who had stolen Armin away from him.

_What needed to be said, here?_

Les Hastings was behind him, a long-fingered hand on each shoulder, steadying him. The scene Commander, Lieutenant Chang, regarded him.

Jean looked down at the table, but Martinez hadn't passed him any notes. Jean took a breath.

"Alex," Jean spoke firmly. "how come you call me buddy?"

Uneven breathing. "Jean. Jean Kirschstein. Kirschy. Cherry Kirsch. A famous guy, but we're still buddies. We're the Blues Brothers. A famous guy is friends with me. With _me_."

"Alex," Jean licked his parched lips. "Alex, friends don't hurt other friends."

A small noise, indistinct. Jean glanced at Rico, who nodded.

"Alex," Jean swallowed. "What did I ever do to _you?_ I never did anything to you. I was your friend. And look…" he shuddered, "look what you are doing to me. You took away the person that I love. You hurt them."

"No," A small whine. "No, I didn't. I didn't do that. I didn't do that."

"You hurt Armin, and you're hurting me."

"I wanted Robbie to go to sleep with me…Sandy hurt him."

Jean stood. His mind had cleared; he hadn't chosen this, but here it was. _This is happening._

"Alex, you need to fix it. You need to fix this for me. You see Armin…" Jean searched for the words. "Armin needs to be here. Armin is…" 

_Jean's eyes closed, blocking out the police trailer. He saw Armin. Kew beach. The first day Armin had met Sasha. They'd gotten blue snow cones and stuck out their tongues. Armin, at Christmas: a soft, erotic fantasy in pink, wanting only to please him. Armin, trying to juggle Sasha, a knapsack and his work bag, crashing merrily into the loft for dinner. Armin sewing, in boots and a gingham sundress, hair atop her head and Kleenex trying to bite her glasses off of her face._

"Alex…there is a moment, just as a person wakes up in the morning. You know, just as you're coming out of sleep? A feeling that is…sweet and soothing, warm and safe. It feels like anything is possible, and that life holds only good things. Like warm honey. Or a summer day…It only lasts for a second…and then you truly wake up to…to whatever your real life is."

Alex didn't speak, but Jean could hear soft, even breathing. 

"Alex, that feeling…that warm, peaceful feeling…that is Armin. That's how Armin makes everyone else feel. If you take that away from the world…that is a wrong thing. A terrible thing. It's not what buddies do. And...we wouldn't be buddies anymore. So you need to fix it. Tell me where Armin is…please? Okay?"

A green ready light blinked, on-and-off. Jean sank to the floor of the trailer. It was the last appeal he could think of. He was, after all, only a musician.

_Oh, Armin…_

"Sandy took him to the windmill," Alex whispered softly, so as not to wake the monster, "he took him there to drown."

Jean's hand shook. He dropped the phone. Around him, the trailer sprang to life. 

He looked up. Lesley Hastings' face. "Good, Jean! Perfect. Tariq and I, we're goin' to get Armin," Les held him by the forearms.

"Lesley?" Chris spoke up.

Les reached for his lover, pulling him into a quick hug. "It's okay. I'll find the damn dog, too. Have to do everything myself."

He planted a fierce kiss onto Chris' forehead. "I'll be back soon."

__________

Armin shook uncontrollably. He spasmed on the ground, like a wounded inchworm. Kojak covered Armin's body with his own, pawing at him, sharing his warmth. The old German shepherd barked again. No one came.

"K…Koj…g-good…" Armin croaked. 

Then, bright lights traversed the night sky. Shapes. Movement.

"I…I…" Armin struggled to raise his torso. He fell.

And was caught by a pair of strong arms.

Kojak barked loudly, baying at the humans that had finally arrived.

"Christ…is he?" Armin heard an unfamiliar voice.

 _It's okay,_ he tried to say. _I just need….I need…._

The shimmer and crinkle of a silver shock blanket. 

_Oh, thank God…_

The sharp sting of a surette, stabbing into his arm. 

_Yes…just…_

"Don't leave me," It was a voice Armin knew as intimately as his own skin. "Don't leave me, little one. Come on…"

Levi. _Levi._

"Leee…." 

A bright light, hands tilting his head. Armin's hands scrabbled feebly at the arms supporting him. His eyes, manic bright in his bloody face, darted left and right. He tried to speak again but collapsed.

"Eren," Levi called to someone, "My bag, now. Now!"

__________

Jean and Krista had ridden in the ambulance, up the north road, several miles past the transition station, to the windmill at the creek head.

Jean had stepped out of the ambulance. The brush had parted, and a young man had emerged. In his arms, looking impossibly frail and bloody, was Armin.

Levi walked alongside, supporting Armin's head and neck.

Jean didn't recognize the young man holding Armin at first; it proved to be the young detective that had become friends with Chris in the last couple of weeks. 

A sob broke from Jean's lips, his heart breaking. He strode forward, holding out his arms. "Please," he whispered. "Give him to me…"

He took Armin gently into his arms. "Levi, so much blood…"

"Just cuts," Levi said brusquely. "Put him onto the stretcher, Jean. Now."

"Armin?" Jean leaned over the gurney, "Armin…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…."

"Jean," Armin croaked, almost inaudibly, "I…lost…lost my…ring."

__________

The unit deployed to the west side of the Conservation area contained a detachment of local law enforcement. Shortly before three in the morning, two officers from this unit were ambushed. A brief struggle ensued, during which a Halton Region Constable was shot in the shoulder.

Alexander Morley now had a weapon, and had plunged deeper into the forest.

At three-seventeen a.m., acting Commander Lieutenant Sandra Chang sent her homicide unit into the bush with S.W.A.T. Team Two.

Detective Tariq Nasir made quick preparations, alongside Les Hastings. Tariq's face was grim, his lips set in a terse line inside the dark scrub of beard.

Les studied his partner. "This is not on you," he told Tariq.

"Oh, yes it is, Pud." Tariq snapped his weapon into it's holster. "This is on me."

"Ain't nothing we can't make right." Lesley placed a hand on Tariq's shoulder. 

He glanced sideways, spotting Eren Jaeger. The young detective's hoodie was splashed with Armin Arlert's blood. He stood, arms crossed petulantly, glaring at Hastings.

Lesley sighed. "C'mon then," he growled.

Eren Jaeger smirked. Tariq glowered at the young Gang Unit operative.

"Where's Levi Ackerman?" Hastings asked, striding out of the command centre.

"Dunno," Jaeger shrugged. "Maybe went to the hospital. I dunno."

Levi Ackerman had, in fact, vanished back into the bush. And this time he was hunting.

__________

Levi Ackerman ran, swift and silent. A lethal rage gripped him. Perhaps the right choice would have been to get into the ambulance and ride with Armin to Rouge Valley Hospital. Levi had made a different choice. He'd closed the back door of the ambulance, leaving Armin in the care of Durham Region Trauma Team under the watchful eye of Jean and Krista, and headed back into the forest.

This morning, there had been a bright, bubbly youngster, ready to race, reaching out to him. By the time night had fallen, that same youth lay bleeding in the brush at the side of a creek bed, face painted in a macabre tribute, bubblegum lipstick and blood, streaked with tears. 

The police had had their chance to fix this.

__________

After the wounding of the Halton Region Constable, strange wails echoed through the forest. Sometimes words, sometimes unintelligible sounds of sorrow, and of loss.

"We need him alive," Tariq Nasir had muttered.

Eren Jaeger had snorted. "Wot the fuck for?"

Nasir shook his head. "Because there is more to know, Jaeger. More he has to tell us. There's a difference between ending a crime spree and solving one."

_Nooooo….._

The chilling wails echoed through the stand of pine.

_No, no, no…leave me alone…leave me…_

"Freeze!"

Off to the left, Hastings heard the voice of Sheridan, the S.W.A.T. Captain he'd worked with that morning.

Weapons drawn, he and his fellow detectives entered the clearing. And stopped.

In the grass a gruesome figure crouched, rocking back and forth.

"Careful," Hastings ordered quietly.

"I want," the figure whimpered, "I want to go home…"

Tariq Nasir stepped forward. "Alex?" he asked softly.

"Home....home, wanna go home...."

"Alex?" Nasir repeated. He held out a hand.

"Wrong!" Sandy replied, rising suddenly. "So wrong, sweet Toyeh!"

__________

Levi heard gunfire. It was coming from the far side of the creek. Shots. Four, at least.

He slid down the embankment, to the creek. It was then that he heard the scream; it was the same as the forest in Tel Aviv, where he'd lost his team. The language was different, but the word was the same: _"Medic! Medic!"_

Levi's world shut down; narrowed focus until all was blotted out except for the shouts from the other side of the creek. He splashed through the shallows, up the other embankment, and into a swarm of police.

In the clearing hung the metallic stink of gunfire. Levi saw lights, flickering and blazing. The grass awash with technicolour blood.

Les Hastings knelt, his large, spatulate hands pressed to Tariq Nasir's abdomen, blood bubbling and leaking through his fingers.

"Dammit, Tariq…dammit...look at me…"

Levi dove to the ground, ripping open his shoulder bag. 

"Get me light! Now!" he growled.

His nimble fingers pinched off the severed artery, reaching for a tiny metal clamp. But there was so much blood. Too much, he thought.

Tariq Nasir's breath came in shallow gasps.

"Moonie…Moonie…Gari…."

Then nothing.

_______________

Moonie Nasir sat in her darkened living room, watching the news and rocking Millicent, who was teething and fretful. Local networks were all covering the same breaking story; that of escaped convict Alexander Morley's attack on Armin Arlert in Ganaraska.

Moonie's dark eyes flicked to her phone. Nothing from Tariq. Not even a text. She had texted her husband three times, with no response.

She picked up her phone, thumbing over Les Hastings' number. Put the phone back down. Millicent began to fuss, and then to bawl. Moonie rose, with her daughter in her arms, wandering into the kitchen to get a frozen teething ring.

"Sssshhh," she soothed, "It's okay, sweetheart…."

"Mom!" Gari stood in the hallway, pressed against the wall. "Mom, she's loud," The little boy complained.

"Come on,"Moonie nudged the teething ring between the tiny pink lips. "Come sit," she walked back into the living room.

Gari climbed up onto the couch beside his mother, snuggling close. He yawned.

"Is there swimming tomorrow?" he asked sleepily.

Moonie smiled. "Tomorrow is today," she said softly. "It's morning, Gari."

"But it's so dark," the little boy looked up at her.

Moonie's phone rang.

So dark.

__________

The night sky paled into a dove grey; early songbirds heralded the sunrise. Ganaraska began to awaken, as a forensic task force crawled through it's trails and valleys.

Detective Lesley Hastings sat on the steps of the park pavillion. At his feet lay his mobile phone, where it had slipped from his fingers after he'd made the call to Moonie Nasir.

He had no weapon; he'd surrendered it to Internal Affairs upon returning to the command post. Eren Jaeger had done the same. One of the two detectives had fired the shot which had fatally wounded serial killer Alexander Morley. 

Two figures approached him. Lesley didn't raise his head. Then, a wet snout was prodding at his face, smelling of creek water, and mud and dog breath.

Les raised a hand to the grizzled old head. "Dumb old man," he said softly, fondling Kojak's ears.

"I….I found the dog, Papi." Chris ventured.

"More like dog found your ass," Lesley countered.

Chris Guthrie stood, watching Lesley uncertainly.

"Come here," the tall detective said softly, holding out a hand, "Come here, baby…" 

__________

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly..._

_Hey. That's my song._

Armin shifted in the hospital bed.

Soothing hands ran through his pale hair, stroking his forehead.

_I promised I wouldn't leave you, Jean. I promised forever._

The blue eyes fluttered open.

"Urrgh."

Jean's face; greenish with exhaustion, puffy-eyed, beautiful.

Armin slowly raised a hand.

"Don't…"

His hand was casted.

Breathing apparatus protruded from his nose and mouth. Wires, tubes.

"Urrgh…uuunh"

__________

_The cab door opened with a whoosh, and a young blond bounced into the back seat._

_"Morning!" said a soft, bright voice._

_Jean looked up, pocketing his phone._

_"Good morning yourself," he smiled, pulling away from the curb. "Where you headed?"_

_"To bed, please."_

_"Huh?" Jean chuckled good-naturedly. He looked in his rear-view mirror._

_Enormous blue eyes. Quirky, mischievous face. Pale hair in a dishevelled ponytail. Blue uniform shirt._

__________

Your face broke my heart that day, sweet baby doll.

I knew it. You were the one.

Sweet Armin.

Forever.

 


	42. No Starr Like Thee

AUGUST

The late summer leaves hung heavy on the elms at Kew Beach; the lakeside park seemed to mourn the inevitable passing of summer. It was warm and humid; the hippo fountain anchoring the childrens' splash pad shot plumes of spray into the air. 

The outdoor chess tables were nearly deserted; two old men hunched, in cardigans and messenger caps, over one of them. 

A young blond cyclist sat at the other, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles; hair caught up in a striped bandanna. Armin lifted his water bottle to his lips, the cool liquid soothing his throat, still tender from the damage it had suffered. 

_Armin's loved ones had sped his recovery along; his sister had prepared teas and poultices to soothe the damaged airway post-surgery; Levi and Sasha had read, at Sasha's insistence, the entire volume of The Adventures of Robin Hood. Even little Kleenex had curled herself up on Armin's chest, nuzzling her white head under Armin's chin._

_Jean had fathomed the depth of Armin's pain, both physical and psychological. He'd sat beside Armin on the couch in Dr. Ral's office, a supportive arm around the slumped shoulders, listening as Armin had worked through the events at Ganaraska in a raspy, broken voice that Dr. Zoe Hanji had said would heal, in time. Armin had raised a hand to his hairline at one of the sessions, pulling back the blond fringe to show Dr. Ral the smattering of half-moon-shaped scars on his forehead. He revealed that he'd been held underwater repeatedly, head pressed against the jagged stones of the creek bed, until he'd passed out._

_That night, as Armin slept, Jean had traced the scars slowly, heartbroken, hot tears splashing into the pale hair._

_Armin was strong. He'd gotten back on a bike as soon as he was able, touring through the city's east end to the bay where he'd once watched the sun rise with Jean, safe and secure._

_Armin had also appeared at Brighton to watch Cherry Kirsch play their Friday night set, adorable in a cream cocktail dress with a periwinkle blue scarf around her throat. She'd sat on her accustomed stool, between Wedge and Dewey Gordon, picking at gnocchi and watching the horse racing. She still won most of her bets._

Armin smiled to himself. Jean's black hatchback had pulled up to the curb. Jean got out first, reaching into the back seat to help Sasha unstrap herself from her booster seat.

 _No, daddy,_ Armin could almost hear her. _I can do it myself!_

She took something out of the drawstring bag which held their chess pieces, closing it inside of her fist. It was a game she'd played with Armin since the first day they'd met over a year ago; he would try and guess which chess piece she was holding.

Sasha sped down the hill, her auburn ponytail bouncing. She ran across the expanse of park, the shade from the trees striping her, bright and dark. She must have been clutching her treasure too tightly, for it spun out of her fist, and she gasped, doubling back over her own legs like a baby deer and falling.

 _Her legs are longer now_ , Armin reflected. _She's not a toddler anymore._

Jean had caught up to Sasha, burdened as usual with all of their park accessories. She squeaked something to him. He pointed into the grass with the toe of his sandal.

When father and daughter were a few yards away from where Armin sat, Jean dumped the beach towels and lawn chairs and lunch bag, and took Sasha's hand.

They made an endearing picture as they approached Armin; both wore their swimsuits and sandals, but they'd topped these with white dress shirts, and fastened a spray of bluebells to their shirts with safety pins. The little corsages drooped, Sasha's augmented with faint orange smears from goldfish crackers. 

Jean's hazel eyes fixed on Armin, his angular jaw set against tears. Armin offered him a sweet, shaky smile. Sasha gave Jean's arm a sharp tug.

"Daddy," she mouthed, "Go."

Jean looked down at her. "You go."

"Now?"

"Yeah, now."

"Should I say hi first?"

"Yes, I think that would be nice."

Sasha reached out a toe, kicking Armin's shin softly. "Hi Armin."

"Hi, Sashmo."

Jean blinked, knocking tears onto his cheek.

Sasha craned upward. "Ugh, Daddy, _stop it_ …"

Taking matters into her own small hands, Sasha stepped forward. She opened her fist, showing Armin the treasure. A small platinum ring sat on her palm.

"Armin, we want to be a family with you. Will you take Daddy's ring?"

Armin's eyes danced. He glanced up at Jean, who could only gaze at him through a haze of fat tears. Armin laughed.

"Yes, Sasha, I would love to accept Daddy's ring." 

Sasha turned to Jean. "He said yes."

"Yes, I heard," Jean snuffled. Jean reached for Armin's hand, pulling him to his feet. Sasha climbed onto the stone bench.

Armin looked down. The ring bore a worked design; a repeated pattern of simple stars. _Star. Their safe word._

"Oh," he gasped. "Jean, this is gorgeous."

"Read the inside," Jean urged.

Tiny letters scribed around the inside of the band: _Many are thee starrs I see, yet in my eye, no starr like thee._

"It's old English," Jean said.

"Daddy, can I go to the splash pad now?" Sasha asked.

Armin sat on the bench, Jean's arm around him, watching Sasha cavorting at the splash pad.

"Why are you shaking?" Jean whispered, kissing Armin's temple softly. "You knew what she was going to say,"

"I know," Armin looked down at the unique band, touching the raised stars. "We wanted Sasha to be part of today…but…knowing didn't make it any less special…any less amazing."

He leaned back against Jean's chest, closing his eyes against the summer sun and felt the soft warmth of Jean's mouth against his own. "Marry me," Jean whispered against his lips.

__________

The small plane taxied down the runway at Toronto Island Airport, coming to a stop by a grey steel hangar. Outside of the hangar, an armoured van and several police cars waited on the hot tarmac.

The plane's hatch opened, it's occupant exiting, escorted by two European air marshals. The figure, a squat, thickly-built individual in an orange jumpsuit, was shackled at wrist and ankle. He took in a deep breath, filling his broad chest. "Ah, Canada," he sighed in a thick Belfast accent.

One of the Canadian law enforcement officers approached him. A tall, bearded black man in a half-pressed suit. A detective's shield gleamed at the man's belt. He removed his Oakley sunglasses, and the Irish prisoner found himself staring into a pair of riveting, dark eyes in a stern face.

The detective spoke to him then: "Jackie Boyle. Belfast, Ireland. Am I gonna have any trouble with you, boy?"

The Belfaster swallowed. He didn't like the look of those dark eyes one bit. "No boss," he said, "Surely not."

The motorcade wound it's way along Highway 401, toward Kingston Penitentiary. Detective Lesley Hastings sat in the lead car with Chief Inspector "Dot" Pixis. 

Arriving at Kingston, the armoured van made it's way through security; the process was painstaking, the chain of custody somewhat convoluted. At length, Les found himself escorted to a small, cinderblock room.

Seated at a table, shackled to it by means of a steel ring, was another thickset man; his resemblance to the new prisoner unmistakable. He was older, however; his hair was silver, collar-length and the green eyes, close-set in his meaty visage, were a dangerous mix of convivial and feral.

The silver-haired prisoner leaned on his forearms, motioning toward the chair opposite.

"Please Lesley," he nodded politely, "Do have a seat. I apologize, I've no biscuits."

Les Hastings scraped back the chair, folding himself into it opposite Pat Boyle, patriarch of the Montreal Irish mob, and Eren Jaeger's former employer.

Boyle cocked his head. "You've been a busy young man, Lesley. Serial killers caught, and such…"

Les pulled a cigarette out of his breast pocket, lit it, and handed it to Boyle.

"Cheers," the Irishman took an appreciative pull, blowing smoke thoughtfully at the ceiling.

"Seen your son?" Hastings asked at length.

"Aye," Pat Boyle regarded the detective levelly. "I've seen my Jackie." The green eyes flicked back to the detective. "You've kept your word."

"He'll get time served," Les said, "Sentence commuted from Belfast. Good behaviour, he's out in three years. Until then, he's your cellmate."

"I never thought to lay eyes on my boy again," Pat Boyle nodded.

Les Hastings stood then, leaning over the table, eyes narrowed.

"And you," his voice was low, penetrating, "You will keep your word, to me. From this day on, 'Billy Keys' don't belong to you. You don't think about him. Your boys don't think about him. He walks away from you. If anyone harm Eren Jaeger…if he has an accident…if he gets so much as a _mother fucking paper cut_ …your baby boy Jackie gets bounced back across the Atlantic, and I will make it my life's work to ensure he fries. 'Cos that's what's waiting for him if we send him back."

Pat Boyle held his hands open, palms up. "You have me at my word, Detective."

Les Hastings plucked the cigarette from the Irishman's mouth, stubbing it out on the back of the prisoner's hand.

Pat Boyle hissed, but his eyes remained locked on Hastings.

"Am I _crystal fucking clear_ ," Hasting growled. "Eren Jaeger has an accident, your son gets the chair. Eren Jaeger goes missing, has a fall, has a car crash, has a fucking scratch on him…Jackie Boyle lands on death row. You better pray to the Virgin fucking Mary that nothing happen to Eren Jaeger. Ever. Any of this fuzzy? At all?"

Pat Boyle regarded the detective unflinchingly. "No," he said quietly. "Terms accepted, detective."

__________

Chris Guthrie had told Eren Jaeger that the best chicken in the city came from the Portuguese BBQ on College Street. 

 _Churrasquierra,_ read the yellow backlit sign. "Charred Squirrel, dude." Chris had told him.

It rained; a late summer shower that made Eren's sneakers squelch as he walked home, clutching the plastic carrier bag containing roast chicken, potatoes and custard tarts. Some distance behind him, his protection officer drove, in an unmarked car. Eren Jaeger had now spent four weeks leading a shadow life; he'd been commended for his decisive action at Ganaraska, he was still on the police payroll, yet he hadn't been reassigned; he was under police protection as it was widely assumed that Pat Boyle and several angry Colombians wanted him dead. He'd lost his home, lost his friends - most of whom were criminals - and lost his Annie, who was not.

It was Sunday. On Sundays, Annie would make a roast, and Yorkshire pudding. Sometimes, there was a card game at their apartment. Poker. After dinner and cards, a few whiskeys. Some shop talk. Some…

...And later, he'd meet his cleaner, one of Inspector Pixis' men, in the bathroom of a gas station where pretty boys went cruising, and under the guise of a tryst, he'd slip a USB key to the other undercover.

He'd never been made. Never. He was relentless, crafty, careful. 

He hadn't meant to fall in love with Annie Leonhardt. She was Irish as well, but had grown up in Toronto. Been to high school locally. Her uncle did business with Pat Boyle. Eren, as Billy Keys, had met her at her uncle's home. Her face, piquant and serious, like a bird of prey beneath a messy bun of blond hair, had haunted him. Strong, sad. 

She was a tattoo artist by trade. She'd done two of his, the last of which was a Shamrock on his hip, wrapped with the word _Eirann_ …Ireland…and yet phonetically, it was also his birth name; one of the hundred ways he'd thumbed his nose at Pat Boyle, even as he'd served him.

She hadn't given him time to think, much less refuse, when she'd finished inking the tattoo, tugged down his boxers and pulled his cock into her mouth. She'd said he was too pretty to resist. They'd been together for three years.

Chris Guthrie had brought Eren to Brighton. There, Eren Jaeger had run the pool tables until he'd encountered Armin Arlert, who'd stripped him of all his winnings, bought him a Jameson's, taken both his hands and whispered, 'Thank you'. Despite his gratitude, Armin hadn't returned any of his billiard winnings. And his blond hair had hurt Eren and made him miss Annie. He'd made friends with Cherry Kirsch's drummer, a nutter from Ballymun, Dublin, called Connie Springer. Eren liked him immediately. He also liked Chris Guthrie; Chris had an easy, chill vibe that Eren found refreshing, and sincere.

Thoughts tortured Eren…what had happened to Annie? Had she given away his clothing and belongings? Had she called the police? Had she called her uncle and the mob boys? Scoured the apartment for a note? Had she driven the streets, looking for him?

One thing was certain; she'd go to her grave thinking 'Billy Keys' was a lying, cheating scumbag that had abandoned her. And that…that was a reality Eren wasn't sure he could live with.

Eren turned a corner, entering the lobby of his building. He scanned the interior, thumb on the revolver he wore holstered beneath his hoodie. Metro Police had given up trying to find, much less, confiscate, all of his firearms. His protection officer entered then, nodded to Eren and they got into the elevator.

"Smells good," the officer commented.

"I got three chickens," Eren mumbled absently.

On the seventh floor, Eren turned the key in the lock of his apartment door. Lights were on. Inside, he saw the other officer in his detail, a tall woman he thought was named Lewis. Lewis nodded. All clear, but something was odd…Lewis left, to take up her station in the apartment hallway.

Roast. It smelled of oven roast. Eren was momentarily annoyed. It was a poxy little shoebox, this apartment, but it was his home, and no one ought to be cooking roast beef there and…

_Crack!_

It stung. He'd gotten a resounding slap on his cheek, and now a pair of fists were pummelling at him.

"Oi!" he cried, trying to restrain the small person in his kitchen. "Oi, what….."

"You arse!" Annie sobbed, a mix of rage and relief, "You son of a bitch!"

"Annie!!" Eren cried. His knees buckled until they bumped the dirty linoleum and he pulled her down with him, "Annie…."

He moaned as he held her; her familiar scent, her taste, her smallness making his entire body ache.

" _Jesus,_ Billy, I'd have stood by you! Honestly, why'd you leave me? _Why'd you leave me alone?_ …" and she ceased pummeling him, throwing her arms around his neck.

Eren's heart hammered in his throat, pain and loneliness breaking like a wave and he wrapped his arms and legs around Annie, sobbing into her neck on the kitchen floor.

He knew he couldn't let her go again. And this time, no more lies.

__________

Lesley Hastings was prepared for it. And he got it; his detective squad pranked him thoroughly; whipped cream in his kevlar, Chicago Bears coffee cup glued to his desk. Condoms in his desk drawers.

He'd shaken his head at the snickers in the squad room, winging a condom packet at one of the detectives. 

"These all too small for this fine man, anyway," he'd snorted.

They'd then presented him with a vintage Chicago Bears jersey and twelve-year-old brandy. "Congrats, Sergeant." 

Newly promoted Detective Sergeant Lesley Hastings sat at his desk in the squad room, fishing through condoms for his paperwork. He picked up a request he'd submitted to his superior, Lieutenant Sandra Chang. Chang had returned it, but not before taking a red felt pen and scrawling a big red question mark onto the form.

Hastings rose, rolled up his sleeves and knocked on her office door.

"Lu?"

"Sergeant. Congratulations on your promotion, Les."

"Thank you. You know how long it took me to type this?"

Sandra Chang looked at the document he thrust in front of her.

"What's wrong with this request, Chang?"

Lieutenant Chang sighed. "Lesley, look…you've got a sweet thing here. You can write your own ticket. Any assignment you want. This is your squad now. I'm not denying there's potential here, but honestly, you really want your hands _that_ full?"

"Lu, the kid's gifted. He worth the aggravation."

Sandra Chang sighed, signed the transfer request and returned it to her new Sergeant. "Good luck, Hastings. You're going to need it."

Sergeant Hastings strode back out into the squad room. His new partner was there, right on time. The young man had shaved, cut his hair and wore a navy suit. The luminous green eyes had settled somehow; softened. 

"Jaeger," he strode forward, accepting Eren's outstretched hand and shaking it. "Welcome to homicide."

__________

SEPTEMBER

Kojak died that fall. He'd enjoyed his supper, and shambled over to his bed, where he'd curled up, sighed, and slipped away. Chris had found him twenty minutes later, when he'd come in to see if he'd wanted to go out for a walk. 

Chris had called the vet, crying softly. Lesley had sat, motionless, in his armchair in the sunporch. He hadn't known that a grief this heavy, this suffocating, was possible.

He'd felt the soft tickle of Chris's hair as he'd knelt in front of him and hugged him; far-away and surreal. Eren Jaeger had shown up in his Dodge Charger with coffee and whiskey. Armin and Jean had come over. They'd been there when the vet arrived, to get Kojak. Armin had knelt on the kitchen floor with Kojak's head cradled in his lap and cried until the vet came to take him away.

Kojak was posthumously indicted into the Metropolitan Toronto Police K9 Division and awarded a star of bravery. His photo was hung in the hallway at Police Plaza, for his extraordinary courage at Ganaraska.

Kojak was buried in an animal cemetery near the lake. Lesley had wanted Chris to sing 'The Lord is my Shepherd', even though he wasn't particularly religious. 

A few weeks later, Chris brought Quincy home from the animal shelter. Quincy was part-bulldog, part terrier, bow-legged with an alarming underbite.

Lesley regarded the two of them quietly.

"I don't want a dog," he said softly, his voice thick.

"It's my dog, Papi," Chris looked down at Quincy.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing's wrong with him!"

"He's funny lookin'."

Lesley had strode into the sunporch. Quincy had followed him.

"Shoo," Lesley had pointed back toward Chris.

Quincy had wagged his tail.

"Boy, call your dog," Lesley raised one eyebrow.

He'd turned and vanished into the porch, Quincy on his heels.

Chris had smiled to himself, exhaling. 

"You want to stay here," he heard Lesley grumbling some time later, "we watch the Chicago Bears on Sundays here, understand? This a Bears household."

 They'd fallen asleep together at halftime.

__________

Police Cadet Farlan Church leaned forward, snapping a rubber band against his classmate Isabel Magnolia's shoulder.

"Ouch!" she hissed, "Stop it, Farlan!"

The classroom was filling up slowly. Farlan glanced around. He was curious to see which of his Police Academy peers had been selected for this specialized stream. He recognized a few of the others. One of them, a weasel-faced guy from Sault Ste. Marie sneered at Isabel. "Hey Magnolia," he called, "you need to know how to _spell_ to be in this class, you know."

"Suck me!" Isabel stuck her tongue out, flipping her middle finger at the weasel.

There were forty-one students in all. They'd been mined from police colleges all over the Province, and each one of them possessed a set of attributes which made them ideal for this specialized course of study. 

At the front of the room, a whiteboard was mounted at waist-height, and a table held a stack of workbooks. Photos mounted on the whiteboard piqued Farlan Church's curiosity. A sultry woman, sitting in a bar. A scruffy-looking man, working dockside. 

Presently, a side door opened, and a figure in a wheelchair entered the room. 

Isabel jabbed Farlan in the ribs. "Look, it's him!" she whispered excitedly.

She was correct. Their instructor picked up a marker, writing the name of the course in big, block-letters at the top of the whiteboard.

_Intelligence: Building a Deep Cover Profile._

He wheeled smoothly, facing his class, a bright smile splitting his dark, trimmed beard.

"Good morning," he began. "And congratulations. You have been selected from a pool of over a thousand applicants for this unit. Welcome. This is Deep Cover Profile Development. I'll be leading this course. My name….is Sergeant Tariq Nasir."

The forty-one cadets attending the class rose, stood tall and saluted their instructor.

__________

It had been a mistake. Jean was certain of it. He'd opened the envelope from the insurance company, and inside had been a cheque. He'd been hoping for perhaps enough to meet expenses for six months. Long enough for Cherry Kirsch to record their first album. The music he'd written, with Chris. There had been a letter accompanying the cheque. 

He'd put the cheque in his pocket and gone over to Mikasa's. Mikki had been in the kitchen, carefully grafting branches from her lemon tree. They'd knelt at the low table in the dining room.

"Jean" _Jon._  "What do you want to say? Please say something. You're making me nervous."

Jean had shown Mikasa the cheque.

"Just take it," he'd pushed it across the table. "Just take it for Sasha. I don't know…what else to say….."

Mikasa had glanced at the cheque again. The sum was many times what Jean had been hoping for.

"Huh," she'd said. Then, she'd pushed it back at him. "Jean, you don't need me involved. If you want to do something for Sasha, just continue as you are. Keep making a life together."

Jean and Armin had gone up to Jean's parents, walked along the river, and talked. Armin had called Ross, and Krista. 

September deepened to yellow and orange, and Armin, Jean and Sasha stood on Beatrice Street, in Little Italy, not far from Jean's first apartment and the _Charred Squirrel_.

They stood in a row, regarding a large, three-storey post-war house. The house had an alleyway running along one side, a large maple tree behind it, and a storefront. It had been owned, over decades, by an Italian family, a commune of hippies, and a bookstore. The exterior had wooden trim, painted garish tomato-red, oxidized green and black. The ground floor storefront had rounded, plate-glass windows and a large, faded red sign swinging and creaking, in the shape of a coffee cup.

It was, without doubt, a huge, three-storey eyesore.

Sasha glanced up at Jean, and at Armin, as if they'd both lost their minds.

"Daddy," she tried to be reasonable. "Daddy, no. I don't think so."

She'd turned on her heel, marching back to the car.

Armin and Jean had looked at one another and snickered.

"What's she doing?" Armin kept his eyes forward. 

Jean snuck a look at the car. "She's in the car, she's buckled herself into her car-seat and she's ready to go!"

Armin let out a peal of laughter. "Oh, no."

He slipped his hand into Jean's kissing him softly. "I'll go."

Armin got into the back seat of the car beside Sasha. He opened a package of Skittles, popping two into his mouth.

"Armin," Sasha gestured out at the red-and-green peeling house. "Let's go. That's a rotten place."

Armin giggled, biting his cheek. "Why?"

"It's nasty," Sasha rolled her eyes.

Armin was wearing white tights, with coloured dots on them, like the Skittles. And boots. He held out the bag of Skittles.

"This is very close to Mama's building," Armin ventured. "It's close to school, too."

"It's uuuuuggglllyyyy."

Armin ate an orange Skittle. "It's got a fairy door."

He didn't look at Sasha.

"No it doesn't."

"It does. And it's got rabbits."

Sasha grabbed a handful of blond hair. "What do you mean?"

__________

The hope of the building's previous investor had been to turn it into a trendy eatery. The investor had shored up the concrete foundation, upgraded the wiring and electrical, updated to natural gas heating and installed a new roof. When the investor's financing had fallen through, the property had gone on the market.

Jean's insurance settlement had been enough for a sizeable downpayment on a house. Armin had sold his share of the family loft at 850 Sina Court to Krista. 

Jean and Armin had combined their assets to purchase the building at 159 Beatrice Street. With all of the structural renovations completed, only cosmetic updating remained to be done. The ground floor of the building had the aforementioned storefront, a small side-shop entered by means of the alleyway, two full storeys above, roof decks and a large, rambling yard. It was roomy, quirky and full of endless possibility.

Armin held Sasha's hand, walking up the alleyway to the side of the building. Here, a small, neatly-lettered plaque read: A. Dawson. Dwarves.

"What's this?" Sasha had asked.

"This is Mrs. Dawson's shop," Armin had answered. "Mrs. Dawson breeds pet bunnies."

Adelaide Dawson, an Australian ex-pat, had rabbit hutches in the backyard. Jean and Armin had agreed to keep her on as a business tenant. Sasha had squealed delightedly when she'd seen the dwarf rabbits.

Between the rabbits and the fairy door, Sasha decided to give the house at 159 Beatrice Street a chance.

__________

OCTOBER

Sasha sat in a blue chair in Terminal Three at Toronto International Airport. She fed Pandora, her pink rubber pterodactyl, some of her cheese strings.

"Rawrk," she said quietly.

Daddy had explained that Mama had been chosen to do some very special research in Israel, at a place called Masada. Mama would be there until Christmas, digging in the desert, and writing about what she'd found. 

Sasha had come to the airport with Armin and her daddy, to say goodbye to Mama.

"Sasha," Jean was calling to her, "Sash, let's go. It's time to go meet Mama at the gate and say 'bye." As they'd walked along the glass corridor, banked with high glass windows, Sasha had studied the huge jet airplanes. 

"That one is Mama's," Jean had pointed. "It's going to Tel Aviv, in Israel."

Sasha had remained round-eyed and silent.

The gate had a large, blue number three hanging over it.

Mikasa was there, wearing an olive green travel jacket, a white shirt and her turquoise crocheted scarf. She bent down, holding out her arms for Sasha. This wasn't the first time Mikasa had travelled for work; however, it would be her longest absence to date. While not being directly involved, Sasha had sensed the pain and grief of the adults that loved her, and it was this more than any trepidation that made her burst into tears as her mother hugged her tightly.

"I love you," she wailed.

"I love you too, _pichu._ " Mikasa said steadily. "I will Skype with you in a few hours. You'll be just fine," Her eyes met Jean's, over Sasha's head.

 _Are you sure? Are we doing the right thing?_ He nodded wordlessly.

Sasha ground at her eyes with a fist.

A quiet figure stepped forward. Sasha looked up.

"Hi Levi," she brightened.

Levi looked down at her, his silence somehow giving her both space and comfort.

"Levi, are you getting on the plane, too?"

"Yes."

Sasha considered this. Levi didn't work at the Museum. "Levi, why do you need to go?"

He crouched down, regarding her with an impassivity that Sasha had come to read as connection.

"I have to go to Tel Aviv," he said simply, "I have to go back to Israel and fix some things. And then I'll come back."

"With Mama?"

"Yes, with your mother."

Sasha held out her hand, offering Levi her pterodactyl. "Here. You'd better take Pandora. Bring her back."

"I will bring her back."

"I love you, Levi."

"Yes," he nodded.

Levi stood, walking over to the window, where Armin watched the planes. He turned Armin slightly, hands on his shoulders.

Armin swallowed, his head dropping onto Levi's arm. "Levi," his voice was husky, "what will I do without…"

"Ssssh. Build your house. Get strong. We'll be back at work before you know it. I need to go back there…before I can move forward. You understand?"

Armin nodded. "Yes."

And Levi pressed his forehead to Armin's, in wordless communion.

__________

Krista Arlert curled on the mahogany leather couch in the loft space she now shared with Ymir, a cup of hibiscus tea perched on her knee. Ymir had been right. It had been Ymir's suggestion to paint the loft a vanilla white throughout, and to restain the floors a dark coffeebean. Krista, used to the riot of colour that had splashed the loft's walls during Ross and Armin's tenancy, had worried that the white might be too stark. 

She'd been wrong; the room glowed, warm and bright, the white offset by hits of red and navy; Scandinavian homespun blankets, cushions and housewares.

Ymir had sanded the floors herself; she'd rented a huge electric sander, but the unit had been too light. Ymir had asked Krista to stand on it, to achieve sufficient pressure to sand the floors.

This Krista had done, the vibrations making her bones chatter and her small body throb; she still flushed crimson at the memory of how Ymir had noticed her flushed cheeks and pulled her off of the sander, taken her to bed and how she had repeatedly….

"It's nice," Ymir's rich voice echoed Krista's thoughts about the redecorating. "Do you like it?"

Ymir plopped down onto the couch, opening a Weiss beer and pouring it carefully into a glass.

"I love it," Krista nodded. "It's perfect. It's us."

Krista had rented out the little storefront at 159 Beatrice Street, to sell her holistic remedies and treats. She decided to keep the swinging red coffee cup sign over the door, but needed a name for the shop.

 _Muffin Glory_ , Ymir had suggested.

 _Muffin Glory_ it was.

__________

Having made tenancy arrangements with both _Muffin Glory_ and _A. Dawson, Dwarves_ , Armin and Jean set about renovating their new home. The two upper floors, while not as wide-open as the loft space, offered plenty of room for the family of three.

Jean and Armin contracted Marco's father's company, Angelo Bodt Construction, to oversee the renovations. Marco and Thomas Wagner flew up from Chile to visit, and to install artisan tiles in the bathrooms and kitchen. 

It was mayhem. Beautiful mayhem. Jean embraced the lush fall days; stainless blue skies, a chilly nip in the morning. Mrs. Dawson paid Sasha a quarter every day to help her feed the rabbits. She kept four rabbit hutches in the yard; soon, it would be too cold to have them outdoors, and they'd go into Mrs. Dawson's shop. 

It would be a number of months before the renovations were complete; there was no rush. Often in the afternoons, work would cease for a couple of hours for a meal in the garden: Marco and Thomas, Mrs. Dawson, Krista and oftentimes Ever with baby Rosamin. 

Armin and Jean often rose early in the morning, before the arrival of the workmen, sharing a warm, sleepy shower together. Jean walked Sasha to school, while Armin organized the workmen at the house. 

Jean was home most evenings, unless Cherry Kirsch played. He and Armin would sit out in the yard, curled into an oversize wicker chair, sharing the warm glow of the firepit that Thomas had made.

Jean handled Armin with a delicacy that only served to remind Armin that he'd been injured, body and soul. Armin had at first appreciated the soft, sweet fingers stroking his hair; the warm security of Jean spooning him in the unfinished bedroom with it's plywood floors and strawberry-patterned wallpaper. It had touched him, the way Jean soaped his young body in the shower in a sweet, chaste way that left him aching, and hollow.

Dr. Ral had advised the two of them to take things slowly; sound advice, but it fell outside of their natural rhythm and Armin had begun to crave the rough strength with which Jean handled him in bed.

_It might make me feel less broken._

There was really no way to say exactly that; and indeed, he'd never had to. From the beginning, Jean's fierce hazel eyes had fixed on his face, seeking permission to take what he needed. In capitulating, Armin had felt the sweetest release of his life. 

It was a Saturday afternoon; work had ground to a halt, and the long wooden table in the backyard held an impromptu lunch; hot and cold sandwiches, pickled eggs, lemonade.

Armin had watched Marco and Jean working with sledgehammers, knocking out the perimeter of an old cement casement. Jean's broad back bore a sheen of sweat. Armin wanted to be draped over it, carried upstairs and thrown across their bed….

"Armin!"

He snapped back to himself. "Sash, what?"

"The new rabbit's name is Duncan. He's orange…"

Marco took a long sure swing with the hammer. Jean followed. Marco laughed out loud. "Dude, don't jump. Don't jump. Just plant."

The kiln accident which had scarred Marco's face had also done cruel damage to his shoulder and chest. Armin hadn't realized. As they sat down to eat, Armin watched Marco through his eyelashes, unselfconscious and joking around with Mrs. Dawson and Ever. 

They sat to eat. Thomas straddled the picnic bench, scooching up to Marco, kissing his disfigured cheek, and then biting it softly. "Shotze," he said softly.

Thomas picked up a black olive, wrapped it in cheese and prosciutto, and attempted to feed it to his lover.

"No," Marco chuckled, "I saw that! You can't hide an olive in there!"

Thomas looked perplexed. "What Italian," he asked in english, "does not eat an olive?"

Jean burst out laughing. "Kris, did you hear that? Thomas just gave Marco shit, _in english!_ "

"I'm learning english," Thomas nodded.

"He's taking english classes," Marco gently pushed away the hand that was still offering an olive, "His english teacher is Lucy. He loves her."

"Awesome sauce!" declared Thomas.

He succeeded in popping the olive into Marco's mouth.

Armin smiled, to himself. Thomas clearly adored Marco, and his disfigurement was of no consequence.

Armin touched his hairline, fingering the silver scars. Perhaps, passion had less to do with scars, artificial hips, pain and fear, and had more to do with the sweet, unspoiled parts of the soul.

__________

"I want to go to bed."

Jean had been doing dishes in a plastic tub in the sink.

Armin stood in the kitchen wearing an orange skirt, work boots and a torn Cherry Kirsch t-shirt. He had a smudge of dirt on his nose.

Jean looked up, hands stilling in the soapy water. He did not pretend that Armin's meaning was unclear.

"Don't move," he whispered, not taking his eyes off of Armin.

He pulled out his phone, thumbed it and held it to his ear. WIth his other hand, he cupped Armin's cheek, tilting the pointed chin upward.

"Simone?" he spoke in to the phone. "It's Jean….Listen, I was wondering if you could do us a favour and keep Sasha tonight? I can take her and Nadine to the Pumpkin Hayride next weekend if….oh, you can? Awesome…tell Rocky Joel thanks, too…"

The hand caressing Armin's cheek slid behind his neck, fisting into the pale hair. A long, searching look at his lover's face.

"I'm not broken," Armin whispered hoarsely. 

Jean pulled Armin close, burying his face in the salty sweet of his neck. "God, Armin…" He groaned against the warm flesh, "Of course you're not broken honey…but it has to be good for you…only if it's good…only…"

Armin leaned forward, nipping Jean's bottom lip hard enough to bring tears. "Aah!"

Jean nipped Armin back, the taste of his sweet boy making him growl. Their open mouths came together, gasping and sucking. Armin's fingers scrabbled at the buttons of Jean's work shirt until Jean caught both of Armin's wrists and slung him over his shoulder, smacked his small bottom and strode upstairs and into the bathroom.

"Grimy thing," he teased, dumping Armin into the shower fully clothed, stepping in and turning on the spray. Armin's orange skirt melted like sherbet, quilting against his legs. Jean picked him up, bracing him against the wall and pinning him with his hips. He kissed Armin under the hot spray; slow, languid passes with his hot tongue that caused Armin to buck and rub against Jean's torso.

Jean shrugged out of his work pants and shirt, pulling the Cherry Kirsch t-shirt over Armin's head. Armin trembled as Jean's warm mouth traced the silver scars that criss-crossed his throat.

Jean raised his head, lips ruddy and parted. "Okay, sweet…okay?"

"More," Armin gasped.

__________  

They had tumbled onto the bed, naked and smelling of satsuma orange shampoo. It was a tangling of limbs; wrestling, squirming, lips and teeth teasing red blossoms onto shoulders and chests. 

Jean was horribly messy with the lube, sending his bedside lamp crashing to the floor, grasping the tube and squirting it's contents onto Armin's belly. 

"Mmmmhh," Armin slicked his hands, rolling onto his side, opening his thighs to accept the press of Jean's groin against his own. 

"I…missed you…" Armin gasped softly.

"I know, baby…it's harder…to watch you hurt….than to be hurt…"

"I know," Armin's breath was soft against Jean's cheek. 

They lay in the growing darkness, finger-teasing one another, pressing their cocks together, rubbing the sweet undersides with their thumbs. 

"Jean," Armin's soft, needy rasp, "More….more…more…" 

The horny little pleas drove Jean over the edge; he cried out sharply against Armin's hair, milking his shuddering boy, milking himself, until a boneless peace flooded him.

__________

"I want Charred Squirrel," Armin whispered.

They'd slept for a couple of hours, tangled and messy and sated.

Armin had risen, washed, and pulled on a pair of black tights, patterned with white skulls. Jean had found her, staring into the mirror, an odd expression on her face.

"I feel lost," she breathed. "I used to feel so strong…now I feel lost…"

"Would you like some help getting ready?" Jean asked gently. She nodded.

He combed her hair, braiding it loosely.

He chose a scent; woodsy, like fresh grass.

She'd put her arms around him then, shaking.

"Would you like the dragonfly in your hair?" he asked softly.

"Fuck. I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

"It's okay," he smiled. "Remember when I dropped the milk pitcher?"

Armin nodded.

"You help me, I help you, right?"

Armin looked up at him, blue eyes drinking in his strength. She touched a finger to a tube of lipstick on the counter.

"This is nice," Jean picked it up. "It's silver. May I put it on for you?"

She nodded, parting her lips slightly. 

"I love you," he said softly, artfully painted her cursive lips. "I love you…."

Silvery lips. He dusted them with a fine shimmer, which tasted like blackberries.

__________

He'd taken Armin back to bed, after dinner. A steady rain had begun to fall, the wind riffling the plastic tarpaulins outside and pattering against the skylight. Jean had lit a couple of tealights and thrown an extra blanket onto their bed.

Armin pulled on one of Jean's flannel shirts, and beneath it, soft, sheer silk underwear against his skin. 

He crawled into bed, nuzzling against Jean's chest. Jean had his laptop open. "Want to watch for awhile?" he'd asked.

Armin had nodded, dozing off halfway through the movie.

The wind woke him sometime later. He lay still, savouring the warmth of Jean's body. Jean stirred then, pulling Armin fiercely close.

In the dark of the half-finished room, in the warmth of their bed, Jean coaxed and teased Armin softly, using his lips and the tips of his fingers. He flipped Armin belly down on the flannel sheets, nosing up under the shirt Armin wore, brushing his rough cheek against Armin's thigh. He kissed the small of Armin's back, tracing the elastic of the sheer panties, biting the taut globes of Armin's bottom through the soft fabric.

Armin sighed, rocking his erection into the mattress, gasping when Jean pulled the panties down and pushed his hot tongue between Armin's cheeks. Armin wriggled, opening his thighs. Jean sucked Armin's scrotum into his mouth, pulling a little whine of pleasure out of Armin. 

"Stay still," Jean murmured. 

"I c-can't…"

A soft slap to his backside. "You stay still or this backside gets warmed."

Jean reached beneath Armin's body, dragging his long fingers down Armin's cock and tonguing his tight little hole firmly. 

Armin groaned, rutting against Jean's hand, begging for the strong fingers to close. "Please…please…"

"I said, still…" Jean's palm cracked across his bottom, the sweet heat causing his belly to spasm with pleasure. 

"Oh… _fuck…yes…"_

Jean's fingers filled his softened pucker, slick and warm and circling gently. "You're not very still, are you?" Armin got another series of playful slaps, pleasure searing him as Jean's fingers opened him carefully.

"Bad boy…"

Armin's balls tightened like a vise and his belly fluttered. He sighed…there would be no stopping himself…

Jean pushed softly against Armin's entrance; the warm, slapped-pink buttocks rising eagerly to meet his hips. 

"Jean, I can't stop," he gasped, "I'm coming…"

Jean thrust gently but fully into the warmth of Armin's body. Armin made a ragged sound and pushed back against him, buttocks tensing spasmodically, soaking the sheets, Jean's thrusts prolonging his orgasm.

Armin's sweet body had gone pliant, bled of tension. Jean slowly rocked himself to bursting, arms wrapped protectively around his lover, lips against the sweat damp hair, eyes sliding shut when the pleasure swamped him.

Trembling.

Fingers interlaced. Lives interlaced.

__________

Armin woke shortly before dawn. He opened his eyes slowly. Above, a patch of inky night showed through the skylight. The clouds had blown over, and stars winked in the heavens. Armin shifted, and smiled. 

The storm has passed; all that remains is starlight.

_Many are thee starrs I see, yet in my eye, no starr like thee._

THE END

 


	43. Cherry Kirsch Short Fics 2K16!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief note about Cherry Kirsch fics for 2016!

Hey all, 

Just a brief note of thanks to those of you that have read and subscribed to Cherry Kirsch! I've got three side-shots coming up in 2K16, and a continuation of the main narrative! The first of these, 'Details', has just been posted here on AO3 and linked to my tumblr watergirl1968.tumblr.com.

Hoping you'd like to keep hanging out with me in this AU...

Cheers and many, many thanks again for all the comments and kudos and encouragement...

xo

Toni


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